


Save Me, Call Me Baby

by vinoharry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blow Jobs, Bottom Harry, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Past Zayn Malik/Louis Tomlinson, Recreational Drug Use, but it's so minor that it's only mentioned, i forgot about niall...
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-29 15:16:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 36,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3901027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vinoharry/pseuds/vinoharry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Your boy’s passed out,” Louis says upon entering the kitchen. He’s got a smug smile on his face, arms folded across his scrawny chest.</p><p>“Kay,” Zayn shrugs, pouring two glasses of water.</p><p>“Come on, Zaynie. What was that back there?”</p><p>Zayn doesn’t even protest the God-awful nickname. “Nothing, just. We talked about that.” His shoulders tense automatically. They hadn’treally, but boundaries do exist. Which clearly, Harry has no problem invading. God, Zayn doesn’t even like him, doesn’t even know why Harry agreed to pretend to be Zayn’s boyfriend for the week.</p><p>“Talked about him wanting to fuck in front of others?” Louis laughs a bit in disbelief.</p><p>“S’different with him,” Zayn defends.</p><p>“Well yeah, he’s your boyfriend. If you don’t like him as much as he likes you, tell him.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i've always wanted to write a fake dating fic so i'm glad i was able to with this fic! i owe the world to my lovely betas, brielle, kay, and elle, and also saima for helping me with the cultural aspects!

“Zayn, sunshine, all we want is for you to be happy.”

Zayn rolls his eyes for what must be the hundredth time since his parent’s arrival. “I _am_ happy mum.”

“We know you’re happy, but are you _happy_?” She worries her bottom lip as if the two things are somehow different. Yaser, from his place at the rickety kitchen table, sips coffee out of one of Liam’s batman mugs, ignoring his wife. “We just worry for you. Doniya’s getting married and you haven’t RSVP’d a date.”

Zayn was going to try to convince Liam to go with him. He just hadn’t gotten around to it. He’s got plenty of time.

“I have a date, ma. Just haven’t told you yet.”

Trisha looks positively filled with glee. “Oh Zayn! That’s excellent! Who is it?”

“S’just a friend.”

“A friend? Oh-”

The doorbell catches them both off guard. Zayn nearly jumps with joy to get it, eager to escape his mother’s inevitable bombardment of questions. It’s probably Liam, coming back to grab something he forgot, but then again, he has his key.

It’s not his flatmate though, it’s Harry. He’s got a massive smile on his face and an even bigger pie in his hands. It looks like he’s got a bottle of cheap wine tucked into his elbow as well.

“Um,” Zayn starts uncomfortably. “Hi?”

“Hi,” Harry drawls out, bringing the pie forth minutely.

Zayn stares at it. He had no idea a pie could be menacing, but he’s also got no idea why Harry’s come over to deliver a pie in the first place. “Why are you here?”

Hurt washes over Harry’s face before he recovers. He glances behind Zayn’s shoulder. “Liam invited me ‘round for dinner.”

Zayn frowns; Liam and Harry are nearly attached at the hip, surely Harry knows where Liam is. “Liam’s not here, mate.”

“But-” Harry looks crestfallen. “Are you sure? He invited me yesterday.”

It’s not a big deal, Zayn wants to say. Harry lives no more than ten paces to their left, yet he looks like it’s been a huge ordeal to come over. “He’s spending the night at Soph’s ‘cause my parents are over.”

And then it dawns on him. It feels like a million lightbulbs are flashing around a giant sign that says ‘this is a trick!’ He’s about to tell Harry to go home, that Liam was just being a shit, when his mother interrupts them.

“Zayn, sunshine, who’s at the door?” The last time Trisha’s timing had been this off was when he still lived at home and she had walked into his room to collect laundry only to find his boyfriend giving him head.

“No-”

“Hi, I’m Harry.” He says, wobbling the pie until he can outstretch a hand. “You must be Zayn’s sister.”

Trisha laughs, handing the pie to Zayn so she can hug Harry properly. The bottle of wine almost goes crashing to the floor, but Zayn saves that too. Honestly, this couldn’t go any worse.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Harry. It’s just that, well, Harry’s always happy and smiling and he knocks on the door at six in the bloody morning to go on a jog with Liam. And sometimes he sings too loudly while cooking dinner and Zayn can hear him through the walls or he’ll pass Zayn in the hall in tiny little shorts and a thin mesh top, curls stuck to his forehead in sweat, or tied back in a bun. He’s dreadful.

“Zayn didn’t tell us we were having a guest for dinner,” Trisha starts as she shuffles Harry through the door. Harry kicks off his shoes, straightening them perfectly before following Trisha into the kitchen.

Zayn rolls his eyes, shutting the door with his foot. If it slams, then it’s no one’s fault but Harry’s.

Harry animatedly smells the sauce his mum’s made when Zayn gets to the kitchen. Yaser’s reading a book at the table, unbothered by the arrival of someone as loud as Harry.

“I’ve got a jar of cumin at home. I never know what to use it for.”

“Oh, you’ve got to use it! It’s so versatile. Zayn just loves it. Don’t you, sunshine?”

“Yeah mum.” Zayn nods, putting the pie on the counter.

He cannot believe how his night’s turned. He was supposed to have a quiet night with his parents and talk about Doniya’s wedding and Waliyha’s boyfriend and Safaa’s science project. He wasn’t supposed to watch his neighbour charm his mother while his father sits idly.

Zayn sets the table while Harry and his mother talk. He’s surprised to learn he doesn’t know much about Harry at all. He knows the basics; that he runs and does yoga, cooks loudly and sings even louder. What he hadn’t known is that he has a sister and his mum got remarried last summer. He hadn’t known that he teaches yoga on weekends and works as a photojournalist occasionally.

“I have a lot of spare time,” Harry explains. Trisha looks like a love-struck teenager the way she’s hanging on his every word.

And like, objectively, Zayn knows Harry’s quite good looking. He’s got a pair of working eyes and he can admire the way Harry wears skin tight jeans and billowy tops. The way he unbuttons them nearly to his navel to show off his tattoos and, although Zayn hates the small ones he’s seen, he can appreciate the work done on the butterfly and anatomical heart.

Still, having Harry in his home without Liam is unsettling.

“So how did you two meet?” Trisha asks just as Zayn’s taken a massive bite of rice and chicken. He chokes on it immediately. Harry brings a worried hand to his back, rubbing his shoulder blades in a way that is completely unnecessary.

Zayn shakes him off as subtly as he can, keeping his head down so he doesn’t see Harry’s slight pout.

“I live next door,” Harry explains. “And Liam and I go for runs most mornings.”

“Oh that’s lovely! Zayn could do with some more running,” his mum beams.

Zayn grits his teeth, looking to his father for solace. “Leave the boy alone,” he half-heartedly defends.

“Nah, Zayn’s quite fit as it is.” Trisha squeals, but says no more. God, Harry’s infuriating. Zayn wonders how much longer he’s got to endure this for.

“Well, I can’t believe Zayn’s kept you a secret for this long. We thought our little boy told us everything.”

“ _Mum_ ,” Zayn whines only to have Harry interrupt him.

“We are fairly new. It took a lot of convincing for Zayn to give me a chance.” He squeezes Zayn’s hand and Zayn honest to God nearly breaks his glass with the hold he’s got on it. Zayn nods tightly when Trisha’s eyes slip to him.

“I’m so glad he did. You’re just fantastic Harry, watching my boy for me.”

“Don’t need to be watched,” Zayn shakes his head.

Harry laughs, kissing Zayn’s hand then weaving their fingers together. It’s sickening. Zayn would never hold someone’s hand like this in front of his parents. It’s stupid. Harry’s stupid. This entire situation is stupid. He’s just about to voice how stupid it is when his mum barrels on.

“And we’re so excited to see you at the wedding!”

“Mum-”

“Oh! I love weddings, I was just telling Zayn about how excited I was.”

“The family’s going to love you, honest.”

Harry nods, turning to Zayn with hearts in his eyes. It’s so over the top, Zayn has no idea how his mum’s buying it. “I hope so. I’m a crier, Zayn’s already told me he’ll pack extra tissues.”

Trisha mistakes Zayn’s eye roll for fondness. “I just adore you two. Oh, I’m so happy!”

“Let the boys eat, Trisha.” Trisha shakes her head lovingly at her husband. If there’s one thing Zayn’s grown up with it’s a prime example of love.

They talk a bit more, about baking and Harry’s education. Yaser stays relatively silent, as does Zayn. He’s going to shit in Liam’s bed and make him do the washing up for ages for this. Liam _knows_ how irritating Zayn finds Harry and this prank isn’t funny at all.

Harry’s telling all these stories about his family, fork waving in the air, yet he somehow manages to finish his food faster than everyone. He constantly tells Trisha how amazing it is. It grinds Zayn’s gears to see his family so happy with him. Harry’s assimilated so quick, it’s just going to make it even more uncomfortable when Zayn never talks about him again and he’s got to deal with his mum’s big, sad eyes.

After dinner, and apple pie that even has Yaser nodding his approval, Harry finally says he should leave.

Zayn snorts, but covers it up with a cough when two heads whip to look at him. Trisha tries every trick in the book to get him to stay a bit longer, saying that they’ve not yet opened the wine. Harry laughs, saying it’s a gift and then they’re hugging and he’s shaking Yaser’s hand, promising to see them in a few weeks. Yaser says something that has Harry blushing then chuckling before shuffling away.

He looks at Zayn expectantly, who’s already opened the door and is tapping his foot impatiently.

Zayn shuts his door as he walks Harry the few steps to his own door. “What the hell was that?” he demands.

“Dinner,” Harry shrugs, unlocking his front door.

“ _Harry_.” Zayn hisses. Dinner was an uncomfortable affair that Zayn would never like to relive again.

“What? You needed saving and I helped you out.” He sounds defensive, but Zayn looks past it. He’s probably just upset he wasted a perfectly good night.

“So what? I just go back there and listen to them talk about how great you are?” It’s what everyone does anyway.

“I don’t know. Stop yelling at me! They’ll think we broke up or something.”

“Whatever.” Zayn mutters. He’s itching for a cigarette.

“I was doing you a favour, yeah?”

Zayn shakes his head, angry and annoyed. Harry always thinks he’s so brilliant, everyone does. It’s infuriating and tonight’s only proved how much Zayn doesn’t like him.

When he gets back to his flat his mum’s waiting. She looks like she’s just cried a bit. “He’s so lovely, Zayn. I can’t wait until he meets the rest of the family.”

“Mum,” Zayn shakes his head, ready to explain how it was a misunderstanding, how there’s no way in hell he’d ever date Harry in his life.

“He seems good for you Zayn,” Yaser confesses and just like that Trisha’s tearing up again.

Zayn’s utterly and completely fucked.

-

Liam’s rolling on the floor with laughter; Zayn kicks him in the stomach. It’s with minimal effort, and all he really does is prod him with his toe, but still.

“That is _gold_!” Liam howls, asking Zayn to recount the story once more.

“I hate you,” Zayn says vehemently. “I’m returning your Christmas gift.”

 _That_ gets Liam to sit up straight. “You wouldn’t.”

Zayn wouldn’t have the heart even if he wanted to. It was a limited edition batman lunchbox from the 1960’s that Liam uses religiously. He takes it to work every morning and even packs a lunch. It’s ridiculous.

“This is a good thing you know,” Liam tells him, crawling onto the couch until they’re both squished. “Harry’s great, maybe you’ll grow to like him.” At the glare Liam receives, he rushes to correct himself. “As a _friend_.”

“Doubt it. Besides, I’ve just got to call my parents in a few weeks, tell them Harry and I’ve broken up and that he’s no longer coming to the wedding.”

“Zayn,” Liam says in his dad voice.

“I don’t want to hear it. This is your fault.”

Liam lets out an exasperated sigh. “Harry’s a good person. You’ll break his heart if he can’t go to the wedding.”

-

Liam’s not the only one to think the sun shine’s out of Harry’s arse.

Not even a week after Harry’s impromptu dinner arrival, Doniya’s talking Zayn’s ear off about how fit Harry is.

“You’re getting _married_ ,” Zayn reminds her.

“So? Your boy’s cute. Charming, too.”

“When in the world have you talked to Harry?”

Doniya sighs like Zayn should really know this. “We follow each other on Instagram and we’ve just become Facebook friends.”

“What?” Zayn’s not even following Harry’s Instagram. And he’s fairly certain they’re only Facebook friends because Harry added himself. Actually, he’s sure of it.

“What? I want to know who my baby brother’s dating.”

“I’m not a baby,” Zayn reminds her. He’s capable of taking care of himself; he swears his entire family forgets that.

“Which is why this is so exciting! Harry’s really great and very polite. He’s excited for the wedding.”

“He’s not-” shit, Zayn could strangle Harry right now. In fact, he’s so enraged he swears he hears Harry’s irritating laughter coming from the living room. Half a second later, Harry and Liam are bursting into his room uninvited.

Harry looks _ridiculous_. And idiotic, Zayn tacks on. His hair’s been straightened by Liam and he’s shirtless. He’s actually nearly naked as the only thing he’s wearing is a pair of his stupid skinny jeans.

“Don-”

“Is that Harry!?” She shrieks. “Put him on! Put him on!”

“Oh, you’re on the phone,” Harry says stupidly. He’s so, so stupid. Zayn hates him.

“Harry!” Doniya screams and Zayn hands him the phone without question. Doniya’s nearly as insufferable as Harry is.

Harry makes himself comfortable on Zayn’s bed. He’s obviously a little drunk, as is Liam who’s watching from the door. He sends Zayn a wink that he easily flips off, trying to concentrate on what Harry’s saying.

“You’re gorgeous Doniya, honest. I can’t wait for your wedding! I _know_! I’ve never seen him in a suit,” he winks at Zayn then dissolves into laughter. Zayn kicks his shoulder, trying to roll him off the bed. One of Harry’s massive hands grabs his calf though. He looks up at Zayn, blinking slowly before righting himself. “Oh you’ve got to show me those pictures! Here, I’ll give you my number!”

“Harry,” Zayn warns, but then Harry’s rattling off numbers and Liam’s chucking pens at him from where he’s spinning in his desk chair.

Zayn wanted a quiet fucking night to draw and talk to his sister and now he’s got drunk and drunker in his room acting like teenagers who’ve just had their first sip of whiskey. Liam’s got a black mesh jersey on and a pair of boxers. He wonders what they were doing in his room that led to them undressing and straightening Harry’s hair.

Harry’s breathing irregularly as he listens to whatever Doniya’s saying. His tattoos are quite marvelous up close, the ink a stark contrast to his pale skin. The birds are odd, but the butterfly has Zayn as transfixed as ever. He’s staring and he’s aware of it. It’s not until Harry laughs, breath fanning out on Zayn’s shin that Zayn startles.

He doesn’t know why he’s staring, but for all that Harry’s hair is stupid, his smile is quite distracting. Harry’s eyes are big and dopey, blinking up at Zayn when he notices the rooms relatively silent. “Yeah, that sounds nice,” he says distractedly.

It shakes Zayn out of his stupor. A stupor that consisted of Harry and his pink, pink lips.

“Hang up,” he mouths, nudging Harry again. Harry’s hands close around Zayn’s leg tighter until he’s saying his goodbye, a promise to visit soon even though the wedding’s in five weeks.

Harry hands Zayn the blank phone back, eerily silent as he herds a distracted Liam out of the room.

When Zayn realizes he’s been doodling birds and butterflies for two hours, he promptly slams his sketchbook shut.

-

“So,” Harry starts, wandering into the kitchen where Zayn’s eating a bowl of Mr. Noodles. “You know, you shouldn’t be eating that.”

At Zayn’s eye roll, he continues, “It’s high in sodium and carbohydrates with little nutrients.”

“What do you want, Harry?”

Harry’s been watching movies with Liam while they do yoga. It’s dumb as hell and if Zayn stopped to admire the curve of Harry’s back, then it was just material to tease him later.

“I was just thinking, the wedding’s in three weeks and we’ve yet to coordinate suits.”

“You’re not going to the wedding.”

“Zayn-”

“No, Harry. I’ll tell them we broke up or something.”

Harry shakes his head, pulling out a chair and sitting across from him. “Why? It’ll get them off your back.”

 _Because I hate you_. Zayn doesn’t say.

“See? It’s a good idea. And I told Waliyha I’d teach her how to braid her hair.”

“She knows how to braid her hair.”

“Not _French_ braid,” Harry rolls his eyes this time. “C’mon, it’ll be fun. And I love weddings.”

“Harry,” Zayn sighs. It would be nice to have someone to go to the wedding with while simultaneously getting his mum to ease up on asking him about dating. “Fine. But we’re not like, slow dancing or anything. And you’re not getting drunk. And we’re not going to like, match or anything, I’m wearing a sherwani.”

Harry nods, excitement written all over his face as if he has any idea what a sherwani actually is. “Show me a picture.”

Zayn pulls it up on his phone. He looks ridiculous in it. It’s when his hair had been long and his mum had made him try it on so his aunt could fix it up. It’s all black with gold embellishment on the collar, sternum, and shoulders. It’s beautiful, but will be hot and he’ll most likely end up in a dress shirt and his pants for the rest of the night.

“Oh! I’ve got this black suit jacket with gold swirlies I can wear.”

“We’re not matching.” Zayn reiterates because there’s no way in hell he’s going anywhere in public with someone wearing a jacket that has _swirlies_ on it.

“This is going to be the _best_.”

Zayn’s never wanted to throttle someone so badly.

-

The drive from Manchester to Bradford is a short hour. They’re not caught in traffic and Harry manages to let Zayn control the stereo. Harry drives because his car is better on gas, which Zayn refused to take as a valid excuse until Harry said he could nap the entire trip. It was as though Harry thought they were driving to Scotland instead.

His parents greet him with all the excitement that a son deserves then toss him aside to fawn over Harry. He eats it up, grinning wildly and hugging every female in sight.

Zayn’s stomach rumbles with the prospect of dinner. It smells amazing like it always does. He’s tried to copy some of his mum’s meals, but he can never get it quite right. He can already taste the smooth sauce his mum’s got boiling on the stove. He feels like he hasn’t eaten in ages. Harry had packed a bag of carrots and celery sticks that Zayn rejected with disgust. He had thought there was no need for snacks, but now he’s hungry and his mum won’t even let him near the kitchen.

No one was even paying attention to him until he tried to grab a slice of chicken and everyone turned to scold him. Harry joined in too, nattering about how Zayn’s always trying to steal food when he makes them dinner. Trisha eats it up, a long winded story about how their first date involved Harry cooking them dinner and then a kiss on the cheek from Zayn. Harry sighs exasperatedly, wrapping an arm around Zayn’s middle and kissing his cheek. “Of course I knocked on his door as soon as he left and demanded a proper kiss.”

His sisters sigh long-suffering, uninterested in the boys’ relationship, whereas Trisha looks wistful.

“We’re going to go unpack,” Zayn interrupts, unable to take any more fawning over Harry. They’re supposed to be fawning over _him_.

“I’ve put you both up in your room Zayn!” His mother says. “I’m not under the impression you don’t sleep in the same bed.”

His sisters titter from their spots on the couch. Zayn’s cheeks flame as he grabs Harry’s hand more in urgency to escape rather than affection. He’s silently fuming as he unpacks Harry’s suit, hanging it carefully in his near-empty closet. Harry’s much quieter behind him, leaving his belongings neatly folded in his suitcase. He sits on the bed, a moderate double that will fit the both of them. It won’t be easy, but Zayn’s slept on worse with another body.

“You don’t have to be so dramatic. They’ll never believe I’m romantic.”

“That’s why I’m the hopeless romantic,” Harry says it as though Zayn should know. He really, really doesn’t. Every romantic gesture Harry’s ever performed has most likely been something he’s seen in a romantic comedy.

“I’m gonna go for a smoke,” Zayn mutters. He feels high-strung and he’s still got seven more days with him. He weasels his way past his family before he’s out on the porch, lighting a cigarette and sucking in the first breath. It goes down his lungs smoothly, settling low in his belly and lighting him up from the inside.

He sits there and smokes through his first one before getting up and walking circles around the small backyard. There’s a pothole in the middle they never got filled, from where Louis had convinced him they could build a pool if they tried. Yaser hadn’t been too mad, just laughed it off while Trisha went wild at both boys.

Zayn pulls out another cigarette. If Louis was in the country he’d be with him instead of Harry. He wouldn’t even need a date because his best mate would be here. He shakes his head, waltzing back over to the porch to finish off his smoke.

The back door rattles open before shutting with a bang.

“I’m glad you’ve brought him,” Trisha mumbles, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

“Yeah.” Zayn nods, blowing smoke away from her.

“He’s been watching you from the window. Seems proper smitten.”

Zayn hums, blowing the smoke out in a rush. He came out here to get away from Harry, not spend more time with him. He’s unbearable.

“Dinner’s ready when you are,” she murmurs, kissing his cheek.

It’s an overall quiet affair.

Tariq comes over and brings his brother, talking animatedly about the wedding. Harry shakes their hands and congratulates Tariq, even though the engagement was nearly a year ago. His brother, Sanjay can’t stop staring at Harry and Zayn wants to stab him with his dinner fork.

When Sanjay confesses that he’s always wanted to learn about photography, Harry looks beyond excited. He’s near shouting as he explains he’s brought his camera. “I’ve never been to Bradford, wanted to capture its beauty.”

Tariq snorts, “Not much beauty around here. Besides my wife.”

“Fiancé,” Waliyha corrects.

Everyone chuckles, including Harry, who loops his pinky around Zayn’s. The look he shoots him is full of so much adoration, Zayn would believe they were in love if he was looking in from the outside. Then again, it’s not like Zayn’s smiling. So he forces himself to swallow his food and then leans in to kiss Harry’s cheek. His skin is warm and it immediately blushes when he pulls away.

“Mum,” Safaa huffs at Trisha sniffling.

“I’m just so happy! My beautiful daughter and baby boy, both finding love!” Yaser rubs her back as Safaa rolls her eyes. Waliyha’s making vomiting sounds into her chicken. Zayn wraps his arm around the back of Harry’s chair. For show, of course. Not at all for the way Harry shuffles his chair in closer as he eats.

“This is really great Trisha,” Harry smiles once he’s swallowed.

“I wasn’t too sure how spicy you like your food, but Zayn says you don’t handle it too well.”

“I do so!” Harry gawks. He turns to look at Zayn with betrayal, but Zayn just shakes his head, face forming a natural smile for the first time all night.

“You do not, babes.”

Harry pouts while Trisha coos. She really needs to stop that; it’s only spurring Harry’s performance on further. “I handle you quite well.” Harry says it lowly, but not low enough.

Tariq laughs as does Doniya. Even Yaser cracks a smile, the traitor.

Zayn pinches Harry’s thigh, causing him to knock his knee against the table loudly. Zayn shakes his head as he sits back in his chair once again, surrounded by love and family and laughter.

Harry’s laughter, at a louder decibel than the rest, doesn’t even bother him.

-

Harry collapses beside Zayn with a huff.

“Went well, I think.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, scooting closer to the wall to let Harry have some wiggle room.

“I like your family. They’re good people.” Zayn hums, closing his eyes. He’s still got his jeans and t-shirt on, but he wants to unwind before he takes a shower and settles into bed for the night. “Tariq too. And Sanjay.”

“Yeap.” Zayn’s only met Sanjay a couple of times. He was never a bad guy, but he was a few years younger and seemed like such a kid.

What Zayn knows of Sanjay is learned solely through what he saw on Instagram one time. He didn’t look like too much of a stand-up guy; posts too many pictures of himself drunk at clubs with multiple guys and girls hanging off of him. Zayn had scrolled through it once then decided he didn’t want to look any further; didn’t want to paint a picture of Sanjay that may not be accurate.

“He’s good looking, yeah?”

“He’s family,” Zayn says. He doesn’t even know if he’s gay.

“He’s not _my_ family.”

Zayn sits up and shoots Harry a look. It has him cutting off mid-chuckle. Something ugly and dark settles in Zayn’s stomach. It twists into a ball when Harry doesn’t say anything more.

“You can’t fuck this up Harry.”

Harry scrambles to sit up too, leg flailing off the bed. “I won’t. Zayn, I’d never.”

“Okay, just – this was your idea, so.”

“No, yeah I know. I wouldn’t anyway. You’re much prettier.”

Zayn smiles tightly. He gets up after that, tells Harry he’s going to shower.

It’s strange, the fact that he hasn’t messaged Liam all day. He’s going to check in with him after the shower, when Harry’s hopefully asleep and he can rant about how frustrating he was all day. He’s playing it up too much. Making Zayn’s family think they’re more serious than Zayn wanted to let on. They were supposed to be casual, a new relationship.

Instead, Harry’s playing the doting boyfriend who’s smitten way too well. It doesn’t sit well with Zayn. He scrubs through his hair quickly. Now that there’s just the top bit it’s much easier to clean and style. He hadn’t liked when his hair was as long as Harry’s, had just done it because he was lazy really.

When he gets back to his room, Harry’s lounging on the bed. He’s got boxers and a band shirt on.

“Sick shirt,” he nods.

“Thanks, I went with my ex. It was one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to.”

Zayn hums, not at all interested in who Harry’s dated. It’s none of his business, objectively. “Are you okay with sharing a bed?”

“Um,” Harry glances at the floor, eyes bulging before nodding his head quickly. “Um, I’d – yes. Yes, I mean, I’d rather sleep in a bed, but if you want me on the floor-”

“No, I – yeah, the bed’s much more comfortable.” Zayn hadn’t been prepared for this. He’d not thought of sleeping arrangements; his mum didn’t even allow Louis and him to share a bed, which, in hindsight was smart of her.

Zayn eyes it, nails digging into his upper thigh. The bed’s never looked smaller, not with Harry’s yeti frame in it. He can probably cram himself in the wall; sleep on his side like a stick.

Harry grins, scooting down to the side of the bed away from the wall. “Can I be the little spoon?”

“We’re not spooning, Harry.”

Harry at least manages to look put off. “Come on,” he starts, eyes twinkling like he’s the only one in on a joke. Zayn’s shirt collar feels tight. “It’s a small bed. I can keep your feet warm.”

Zayn, despite his best effort, manages to snort out a laugh. “Go brush your teeth.”

Harry heaves a massive sigh as he extracts himself from the bed. He shuts the door quietly though and then the water runs and he can hear Harry hum as he brushes.

Maybe fake dating Harry won’t be so bad after all.

-

“Well, well, well! What do we have here?”

Zayn’s eyes creak open, mouth tasting stale. It’s too early for such an interruption as he’s got some of Harry’s curls in his mouth and an arm slung around his back. Harry’s snuggled into his chest in a way that is definitely too close for comfort. He’s drooled a bit on Zayn’s shirt, a stark patch of dark grey.

The most alarming thing, though, is Louis.

He’s got a snapback on his head and a baggy shirt over what have to be jeggings and he’s _here_ in Bradford instead of Wellington. Zayn nearly pushes Harry out of the bed in his haste to climb over him and get to his friend.

And then he’s got a laughing Louis wrapped up in his arms, slapping his back in excitement.

“Holy shit!” Zayn laughs. He’s so full of glee and giddy and his best friend just flew for over a day to come home. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I’m not just going to sit in New Zealand while my favourite Malik gets married.”

“Shut up,” Zayn says, pushing him off. He feels high with adrenaline. Louis’ been gone for a year and he looks so different.

“And who’s _this_?” Louis says, gesturing to Harry and yeah – Harry’s pulling himself out of the bed with a grin.

“Harry, hi.”

“Louis.” Louis shakes his hand with enthusiasm, giving him a couple looks over before nudging Zayn. “I must say, I’m quite proud of my boy for landing such a catch.”

Harry laughs, swinging an arm around Zayn’s waist and tugging him in. Zayn’s too stunned by Louis’ presence to even dispute that fact. He’ll be sure to tell him the truth later.

“Well you did throw a wrench into our morning plans, but it’s nice to meet you.” Harry nuzzles Zayn’s neck, breathing in deep. Louis’ laugh is loud and warm. Zayn only elbows Harry a little bit.

“Then I’m glad I didn’t come in any later.”

They all share a laugh, Zayn filled with more happiness than he’s felt since they started their little arrangement. He can tell Louis about this, he’s sure of it and then they can all relax and be normal.

It’s surprisingly later than Zayn had thought. His father’s at work and his mum’s over at his aunt’s. All of his sisters are there too, getting their mehndi done before the wedding.

“Mate, I cannot believe you’re actually here.” Zayn says over his omelette.

Louis’ eating his second plate as if he hasn’t eaten a thing since his plane touched down. Jay’s most likely filled him with three breakfasts already, but he shows no sign of slowing down. Harry looks the perfect part as he flips his serving in the pan.

“I booked my ticket a week ago, skived off work and here I am.”

“That’s sick. I had to practically beg for time off.”

“Never work for the man Zayn.”

Louis’ the biggest hypocrite in the world. He practically is the man, bossing children around in every classroom in every country. It’s not like Zayn’s job is too difficult, doing small illustrations for the mediocre newspaper he works at isn’t too bad of a gig. He’d like to go back to school, take some more psychology classes and explore art therapy.

He’s about to explain all this to Louis when Harry brings his plate of egg and cheese and various vegetables to the table and digs in. He’s sliced up some oranges, but seems to be the only person interested in eating them. He eats like a horse then talks Louis’ ear off about travelling and makes him show him every single picture he’s got on his phone. He oohs and aahs and as much as Zayn’s glad Louis’ back, he’s yet to talk to him about anything since Harry’s clinging to Louis like a koala.

It’s not that Zayn’s jealous of Louis – because he doesn’t like Harry. He’s just Liam’s friend that offered to do Zayn a favour and now they’re here. He’s more jealous that Louis’ looking at Harry with admiration and delight.

“When’s your dad coming back?” Harry asks while Louis searches for something to watch on Netflix.

“Dunno, I think he’s going to my uncle’s.”

“I’m still here, Harold. Don’t get up to anything frisky while my back’s turned.”

“You’re no fun!” He pouts, crossing his arms like a child.

“Zayner, go placate your boytoy.”

Harry squawks, looking completely indignant yet hopelessly ecstatic. He attacks, leaping from his spot on the couch onto Louis who was sitting on the ground. Louis’ clearly fighting for air as Harry’s frame traps him. It’s usually Zayn who’s wrestling Louis, usually Zayn who’s pinning Louis down and poking his sides while he calls for mercy.

“Lou,” he calls, when Harry’s finally let him take a breath. “Gonna go for a smoke.”

“Oh, I’ll come, yeah.” He disentangles himself from Harry’s limbs, shoving him off until Harry’s flat on his back, spread like a starfish. “Haz?”

“Doesn’t like the smell,” Zayn says before Harry can answer for himself. He just needs some fucking space.

Zayn holds his inhale until it physically burns. Opening his mouth and releasing the smoke is cathartic. He does it a couple more times, trying to make rings that he fails at viciously.

“Three of us’ve gotta get wasted soon.”

“Oh, man.” Zayn can’t believe he wasn’t the first to think of it. “For sure.”

“I actually brought some brownies.”

“Lou-” Zayn laughs as Louis pulls a bag of brownies out of his jacket. They’re smushed against the plastic bag, but if they’re anything like Zayn remembers, they’re going to get completely fucked up. “When the fuck did you have time to make that?”

Louis shrugs, vague like always before sucking on his cigarette. “Harry’s great, man.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, steadying himself for confession. “The thing is-”

“Like, really great. He’s so quirky and a bit strange, but man, I think he loves you. Is it too early to say that? Has he told you? Because he fucking lights up. You peed for like, ten seconds and he was gushing about you. Would’ve made me sick if I wasn’t so happy.”

“Thanks,” Zayn nods, the nicotine burning too quickly. He needs another. Louis throws his arm around him, pulling him in for a tight hug.

“I’m being serious. I get worried y’know. I’m gone all the time and I miss the fuck out of you. But Harry’s a good guy, a little too eager, but he’s good. I’m so fucking glad you’ve got someone like that in your life.”

The sincerity in his eyes is, frankly, a bit startling. “Haven’t even eaten any of the brownies and you’re already getting sappy,” Zayn comments. It’s fucking weird.

“Ha, sorry man. Just happy for you. Proud too. Harry looks like he’s packing.”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Zayn laughs, crushing his smoke and getting Louis into a headlock. It’s like the old them, close, touching. Zayn’s missed his best mate so bad and as great as Liam is, there’s no one like Louis. No one that’s been with him through the toughest years of his life; who he came out to then later found out was bi, who he drunkenly kissed in year nine only to fuck in year ten. It was never anything serious and it was under mutual understanding, but –

No one can replace Louis and as much as Zayn wants to tell him that Harry’s his fake boyfriend, he doesn’t want to let him down.

“Looks like we’ve got a creeper.”

Zayn turns his head to look to the window and yeah, Harry’s watching them. He looks a bit sad, but then Zayn’s lifting his hand in a wave and he’s smiling again. It is quite a nice smile.

“Let’s go see your boy.”

They steal a bottle of rum like they used to in secondary, then drink it while eating bits of brownie. Harry’s on the floor while Louis and Zayn sit close, Breaking Bad playing because Zayn stopped watching it and Louis became outraged, insisting that they catch Zayn up on the episodes he’d missed.

Zayn’s been getting progressively drunker, nothing embarrassing and he’s higher than anything. Harry’s on his back, staring at the ceiling instead of the television. He looks calm though, keeps licking his lips and smacking them together. His hair’s falling around the carpet, shirt lifted up to reveal the tattoo on his left hip. Zayn’s known him for months, seen him shirtless countless times, but he’s yet to know what each one is, what each one means.

Harry catches him staring, smiling wide when their eyes connect. Zayn smiles back, gentler, softer, before turning his focus back to the television. He would kill for a fajita. He says as much.

“Remember ‘round Halloween in sixth form, when we went to that Halloween party then ended up sneaking off to drink that raspberry shit and smoke that dodgy weed? Then we went ‘round mine and ate fajitas in our boxers.”

Zayn laughs, smiling at the memory. He ditched a pull for that; had no regrets about it when they gave each other messy hand jobs after.

He’s laughing with Louis when suddenly he’s got a lapful of Harry. “Um,” he starts, moving his drink out of the way when Harry wraps both arms around his neck, his back to Louis. Zayn wraps an arm around his lower back, steadying him.

“Well, alright!” Louis laughs good-naturedly, moving to the end of the couch.

“My bum hurt,” Harry explains. His breath is warm, smells like rum and chocolate as it hits Zayn’s cheek. He kisses the spot, lips wet.

“Don’t start fucking, I’m not watching that.” Louis grumbles from his end. He picks up the remote and turns up the volume as Harry nuzzles into Zayn’s neck.

Zayn feels way too sober for this. “Harry,” he warns when Harry’s breath starts to even out. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”

“But you’re warm,” he wiggles around a bit, readjusts his grip on him so he can cling tighter. He keeps wiggling, moving his hips in little circles – Zayn’s got no idea what he’s doing. He whines a little bit, stroking a warm hand down Zayn’s arm before entwining their fingers. “And m’horny.”

“Oh my God!” Louis howls.

“S’not my fault,” Harry drawls, voice like honey. “Weed does it.” Louis laughs again, loud and brash the dirty traitor. Everyone’s against Zayn, he’s sure.

“Zayn, go take care of your boy.” Zayn shakes his head, irritation replacing intoxication. This is all a big joke to him and he can’t even push Harry out of his lap like he wants to. And Harry’s warm and his hair is all over the place, tickling his neck and his shoulder. He doesn’t smell terrible, like sweat and lingering cologne, but he won’t release his vice grip.

“Yeah, Zayn, take _care_ of me,” Harry repeats before giggling. He kisses Zayn’s jaw, then below his ear. It’s painstakingly intimate.

“Stop,” he mutters, pulling away. He must say it more aggressively than he means to, or well, should have, because Louis stops laughing and Harry stops breathing. His breath hitches and then he hiccups. For a terrible second, Zayn thinks he’s about to cry.

“M’gonna, m’gonna take a nap, I think.” He stands up, doesn’t look at anyone as he picks his phone up off the floor then climbs the stairs. Zayn can hear him thumping around, walking into the wall and stepping on the creaking flooring.

“Zayn-”

“Don’t.”

“Come on man, that was a bit uncalled for.”

“He was kissing my _neck_ ,” Zayn grits out. God, Harry’s so annoying, has no idea what personal space is.

“He’s your boyfriend! He’s probably done a lot worse.”

Zayn stands with a huff. It’s just past dinner, and still light out for Christ’s sake. His family won’t be home for a couple more hours most likely. “I’m gonna go for a smoke.”

-

After the cigarette has calmed his nerves, he steps back into the house calmer than before. He’ll just talk to Harry, tell him they shouldn’t be doing that. It’s confusing and he doesn’t want to give Harry the wrong idea.

Louis’ gone from his spot on the couch, but it doesn’t worry him. He’s probably gone for a piss or a smoke out the back. God, Zayn was trying to cut down on his cigs. He smokes way too much, knows it’s bad for him, but can’t fucking stop.

He starts cleaning up the tiny table they had their drinks on. Zayn pours out the cups, rinsing them then placing them in the tiny dishwasher. The little baggy Louis had the brownie in is empty. It was a damn good brownie too, he’ll have to find out where Louis got it.

God, he’s missed Louis. And even though he’s frustrated with him, with everyone really, it doesn’t stop how deeply he missed him.

“Your boy’s passed out,” Louis says upon entering the kitchen. He’s got a smug smile on his face, arms folded across his scrawny chest.

“’Kay,” Zayn shrugs, pouring two glasses of water.

“Come on, Zaynie. What was that back there?”

Zayn doesn’t even protest the God-awful nickname. “Nothing, just. We talked about that.” His shoulders tense automatically. They hadn’t _really_ , but boundaries do exist. Which clearly, Harry has no problem invading. God, Zayn doesn’t even like him.

“Talked about him wanting to fuck in front of others?” Louis laughs a bit in disbelief. If anyone knows Zayn, it’s Louis. He’s never been one to turn down a good time. There’d been instances in secondary where Louis and Zayn would start making out, audience or not. It was just – it was them. Zayn doesn’t know how to describe it.

“S’different with him,” Zayn defends.

“Well yeah, he’s your boyfriend. If you don’t like him as much as he likes you, tell him.”

“I – I like him, yeah?” Zayn should’ve really taken drama class more seriously. He’s always been a shit liar and he’s not sure if Louis believes him or not. He itches his knee, run his hands through his fluffy hair. He’d gotten the sides touched up before he left, wonders if he can grow some scruff in time for the wedding. “S’just different. I don’t want to fuck it up.” Well, at least that part’s true.

Louis squeezes his shoulder. “Want to play Xbox until the family comes home?”

-

Zayn’s siblings attack Louis in a way he’s never seen before. They didn’t even hug him that excitedly.

Louis eats it up, swinging Safaa around and going on and on about how gorgeous Waliyha got. He looks like he’s about to cry when he sees Doniya’s engagement ring. The girls show off their intricate mehndi; lifting their pant legs and rolling up their sleeves.

“You’re staying for some sweets, Louis?” Waliyha’s got a container of jalebi in her hand.

“I’d love to, but I told mum I’d take the girls out for ice cream.” Zayn’s not sure if it’s a lie or not.

Safaa whines, clinging to his leg. “Where’s Harry then? He’ll eat with me, right?”

Zayn nods, leading Louis to the door. “See you soon, yeah? We’ll go to the pub if you have time.”

They hug for a long while, mostly sober and affectionate. Right, Zayn thinks as the door slams shut, time to face Harry.

He wastes a bit of time, convincing Saf he wants to see her henna again. Waliyha’s sprawled on the couch, texting what must be her boyfriend. At some point, Zayn’s got to ask her about that before he leaves. He steals a bit of jalebi, the sweet syrupy coating sticking to his fingers.

And then he’s off, climbing the stairs while his stomach’s in knots. Zayn’s no longer angry, just anxious. He has no idea what mood Harry’s going to be in when he sees him.

He knocks on the door gently, pushing it open to reveal a still sleeping Harry. His curls are pulled back into a bun, brow furrowed in slumber. His lips are pursed, so pink and plump where they lie against the pillow. There’s a bit of drool, something Zayn’s learned Harry can’t seem to stop. He’s lying diagonally, taking up as much space as he can occupy.

“Harry,” Zayn whispers stroking a hand down his back to rouse him. When he doesn’t move, Zayn shakes him a little bit, sitting on the bed. “H, wake up.”

Harry blinks awake, none too startled that Zayn’s there. “Hi. Sorry,” Harry yawns, bringing a large palm to cover his mouth. He’s got rings on his fingers – Zayn has no idea how he missed how big his hands are; they’re practically paws.

Harry blinks a couple of times, seemingly waiting for Zayn to say more. He’s at a loss for words though, Harry looks so soft and disgruntled from being woken up. Harry grumbles something under his breath, lifting the duvet around him higher.

“Hey, hey no,” Zayn laughs. He grabs the blanket back. “The family’s home, they want to eat sweets.”

“Okay,” Harry nods. He looks drowsy, still a bit drunk. “Sorry about earlier. Like, on the couch.”

“Just, don’t do that.” Zayn says shortly, aggravated. He knows it’s not fair to get so mad, without an explanation, but he doesn’t have an explanation. He just – he didn’t like it. He misses the way Harry’s eyebrows draw in, dejection sweeping over his features.

“But we’re supposed to be a couple.” Zayn’s got to hand it to him, Harry’s great at keeping up the act.

Zayn shakes his head, glancing to the alarm clock and pointedly ignoring Harry’s stare. “Come on, the girls want to show you their mehndi.”

-

Going to bed that night, things aren’t tense per se, they’re just… Zayn can feel that something’s off between them.

Harry had been charming during dessert, indulging his sisters in talking over him and telling him about how exciting their summer’s been so far. Trisha shoots her son a few questioning glances because Harry ignoring Zayn is painfully obvious. When everyone was headed for bed, Zayn followed Harry two steps behind him.

“M’gonna take a shower,” Harry mumbles, grabbing a change of clothes out of his suitcase.

Zayn nods, relieved to have a few minutes alone.

He could probably do with a shower, but as it is, he’ll wait until tomorrow morning. He can always just do it before Harry wakes up. They’ve got to sort their shit out though. The wedding’s in two days’ time and they can’t afford to fuck it up now.

-

Zayn wakes up with his neck covered in sweat and his boxers clinging to his thighs. His arm has found its way around Harry’s waist again, nose buried into the back of Harry’s neck. He smells like the clean familiarity of Zayn’s adolescent soap. Zayn’s half hard in his boxers.

With a sigh, he rolls until he’s on his back, staring at the ceiling. Harry snuffles in his sleep, scooting backward to retain any heat from Zayn. Although he can’t see his face, Zayn can imagine the way Harry’s eyebrows are furrowed, lips pouted like they’d been during his nap.

He’ll admit, Harry’s not as annoying as he seems. He talks quite often and doesn’t seem to have a time limit on his stories, but he’s doing Zayn a favour. He should probably ease up on him – doesn’t want Liam scolding him when this is all over.

“Cold,” Harry whines in his sleep, reaching back and patting around.

The bed is small, Harry doesn’t have to pat until he’s connecting his hand to Zayn’s thigh. It’s – it’s a little too close to where Zayn’s dick is still filling up.

It’s ridiculous really, that Harry’s saying he’s cold. He’s burrowed under the fluffy duvet, wearing boxers and the same band shirt as before. He’s got thin socks on his feet and his hair is all over the pillow above his head. There’s no way he’s even the slightest bit chilly.

“Cuddle,” he murmurs, squeezing Zayn’s thigh.

Zayn sighs, rolling his eyes. He’ll just – he’ll wrap his arm around Harry again until he falls asleep.

-

Zayn wakes up alone, still hard in his boxers.

He takes a hot shower, jerking himself off until his fingers are pressing into the tile painfully. He towels off, wrapping his hair into a bun then stumbling down the stairs. It’s unbearably hot in their tiny house. The air conditioning having always been dodgy.

“Where’s Harry?” He asks his mum. Wali and Safaa are on the couch, Doniya most likely at one of his aunt’s house.

“Went for a run,” his mum hums, stirring a big wooden spoon.

“By himself?” He looks into the pot, taking in the chicken and thick cut onion. Salan Stew has always been one of his favourite meals.

“Yes. He left while you were in the shower.”

“Oh?” Zayn rubs his hands together, taking a seat. He’s suddenly nervous. In all of the scenarios he concocted of fake-dating Harry, he hadn’t anticipated what he might say when left alone with Trisha. “He say anything?”

Trisha gives him a coy smile. “No. Should he have?”

“No. What do you think of him?” Zayn asks, because he should.

Trisha gives him a generous helping of stew before grabbing a glass of water. “He’s lovely Zayn, a really great boy. He talks about you like you hung the moon.” She sounds gleeful, happy. “He showed me some pictures of you.”

“What?” Zayn asks, tongue burning from the eager bite he took. For the life of him he can’t recall when Harry’s ever captured a picture of him.

“Oh, they’re just silly ones. You drawing, playing video games, there’s a couple with Liam, but not too many.”

“Oh,” Zayn laughs, hoping his mum won’t catch him. He’ll have to corner Harry at some point and see them.

“The girls love him too. He seems so grounded and happy. He’s really great for you Zayn.” Her voice is shaking, lip wobbling dangerously.

“Mum, come on. We’re not too serious.”

Trisha wipes at her eyes, cautionary. “Okay, okay. Just don’t tell him that. He was going off about your eyes.” She laughs it off like it’s not a big deal, but Zayn can hear the way she’s holding back another flood of tears.

It’s earnest and slightly uncomfortable. They never discussed their etiquette, how affectionate they should act and pretend to be. He forgets about it though, because by the time Zayn’s finished his lunch, Harry’s just returning from his run.

His eyes are bright, cheeks flushed. The front of his grey shirt’s soaked in sweat with his hair pushed back into a bushy bun. He’s panting, clearly exhausted, but he looks good. Zayn’s eyes linger on his thighs, where the hair thins out and his tan fades.

“Hi,” Harry grins, kissing Zayn’s cheek.

Zayn blinks a couple of times, ignoring his mums giggle. “How was your run?”

Zayn searches his eyes, tries to see any hint of lingering resentment from the night before. Harry’s eyes are clear though as he smiles wider.

“Great. We’ve got to go out later, I want to take some photos.”

Zayn can’t think of anything particularly exciting that Harry would want to photograph, but if he wants to stumble around Baildon and take pictures of the run down corner store and brick houses, he’s more than welcome to.

“’Course. You hungry?”

Harry nods, stealing Zayn’s water. His head tips back, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. Zayn feels that overwhelming swelter take him over again. God, he must really be sex deprived if his dick’s stirring at _Harry_ drinking water.

Trisha leaves them be after plating Harry some food. He eats it quietly, pushing the onions out of the way.

“Not a fan of onions?” Zayn asks, resting his feet on the chair across from him. 

Harry hums, rocking from side to side before shrugging. “Not if we’ll be kissing later,” he smiles conspiringly.

“Unlikely,” Zayn mutters. Harry’s forehead is shining, the material by his underarms damp. The little baby curls along his forehead are springy and thin.

“Come on,” Harry whines, though he doesn’t sound too put out. “We’ve got to make it believable.”

“We are. You should shower, my cousins are coming over.”

Harry scrapes the sides of the bowl, opening his mouth wide for his last spoonful. “We could shower together,” he suggests, smile playing on his lips, “save water and that.”

Zayn kicks out when Harry passes, “You wish.”

Harry wiggles his bum in his tiny running shorts on his way out the door.

-

Zayn’s in a great mood for the rest of the day.

After his shower, Harry ties his hair into a bun then grabs Zayn’s hand, swinging it all the way out the door. He has his camera hung around his neck, one of Zayn’s shirts on. Zayn gawks at him, the fabric undeniably tight across his broad shoulders, undoubtedly leaving the material stretched beyond repair. 

They keep their hands together as Zayn shows him memorable spots around town. He knows nearly everyone and every place in his tiny district. He has a story for each one: the first time he was pushed off a skateboard and lost a tooth; where he asked out a girl and got rejected; the corner store he’d buy smokes when he was underage; where he was in a car accident with his cousin when he was thirteen.

They finally stop at the River Aire; Zayn explaining the story where Louis convinced him to jump in despite the murky water and harsh edge. Zayn had been freezing cold and soaked to the bone, petrified that the family beside him were going to call the police. Harry laughs along, snapping a picture of Zayn before he has a chance to protest.

“I wasn’t ready.” Zayn tugs on the hem of his shirt, resituates his collar. Another shutter goes off when he smooths back his hair. “Harry,” Zayn pouts.

“Oh, yeah, keep doing that smolder.”

“I’m not smoldering, I’m glaring.” Zayn purses his lips a bit more, trying to be subtle. He’s taken too many selfies not to know his angles.

“The camera loves you,” Harry says off-handed, quiet. Harry snaps another one of him before turning to the river, squatting as he takes picture after picture of the calm stream.

“My mum mentioned something earlier,” Zayn starts, curiosity back at full force.

Harry scratches his nose. It’s slightly red despite the warm air. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, said you showed her a bunch of pictures of me.”

Harry’s cheeks tint, bashfully looking down at the ground. “Just like, they’re not creepy.”

“Let’s see,” Zayn goads, bumping their shoulders together.

Harry clicks a couple of buttons, holding his camera suspiciously close to his face. He hands the camera over then tucks his hands into his pockets.

Zayn scrolls through and – and he had no idea any of these were being taken. There’s one of him playing video games, most likely against Liam, but there’s no trace of him in the photograph. There’s a collection of Zayn drawing at the kitchen table, beanie low on his forehead and pens scattered on the table. From the angle, Zayn knows that Harry must have been taking them from the doorway.

He keeps clicking, finding a picture of him outside smoking with Liam that was taken through a window. There’s another of Zayn laughing loudly on the couch, bong in his lap. He’d been smoking with Liam, Harry sitting on the reclining chair adjacent to them and – and Zayn’s never realized just how much time Harry spent at their flat. He always seemed to just be there, but Zayn had never paid much attention to his presence.

Zayn feels uneasy about it. About Harry and his path intersecting so many times and how Zayn’s blatantly ignored him.

At Zayn’s stillness, Harry takes the camera back. “Sorry, they’re – they’re a bit creepy. Liam said.”

“No, no. They’re great Harry. I just hadn’t realized there’d be so many.”

“I – you’re really beautiful Zayn.” Just like that, Harry’s scampering off again, finding beauty in a dying flower.

Zayn lets Harry make his way down the river, uncharacteristically concentrated. Harry lifts onto his tiptoes to rearrange leaves on a branch. His shoulder blades become pronounced as he tries to place them for the shot. The shirt slips up his back, dimples in his spine on display.

Zayn’s never paid as much attention to his body as he does now. With the awareness that Harry’s watched him, he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt for oogling his body. The moments when Harry’s walked around shirtless with Liam, Zayn always averted his eyes. His distaste for the younger boy had always influenced his actions and although Zayn still finds him irritating, it grinds his gears less and less.

Harry turns the camera around, trying to balance it in order to take a couple of pictures of the two of them. He practically drops it twice, squealing as he fumbles with it.

“Let me,” Zayn offers, taking the camera with a firmer grip. He’s able to click off a few, smiling wide then smouldering when Harry goads him into it.

“Kiss my cheek,” Harry instructs. Zayn does as he says, pressing his lips to the warm skin for the first time.

It’s a little awkward, being so close to Harry, who, just a week ago he had no interest in getting to know. But it dissipates when he finds himself laughing, Harry’s cheek expanding with a smile. Harry smells like Zayn’s spicy aftershave, his citrusy cologne. It’s all fun and games, Harry laughing prettily until he turns his head and kisses him.

“Oh,” Zayn startles, pulling back. “I-”

Zayn blinks at Harry, whose eyes are bigger than he thinks they’ve ever been. He looks thrown off, in disbelief – as if Zayn was the one who’d kissed _him_.

“Sorry,” Harry blurts, looking down at his brown suede shoes. His cheeks are red.

Zayn swallows, handing the camera back to him. “No worries. It’d be good um, good to show my mum.”

Harry coughs into his fist. “Right. Yeah.”

Zayn leads them to his old school, walking around the grounds and remembering everything that’s happened. It’s weird coming back after so long, especially in the day time. When Louis still lived at home, Zayn had driven by it nearly every day. In the months that Louis’d been gone, Zayn hadn’t had a reason to pass the school, but walking by it, seeing the bumpy bricks and the huge windows reminds him of who he was before Manchester. He feels like that was another lifetime, when he was shy, insecure, too into comics, and hid behind Louis’ shadow.

Harry has his camera raised while they trek until he starts to complain about how tired he’s getting.

“You literally went for a run!” Zayn teases, poking his side.

Harry very nearly snaps in half to get away from him, scampering away to jump and twirl in the field. He looks ridiculous.

They find a bench to sit on, scrolling through the pictures. There are surprising amounts of Zayn just standing, looking around. He doesn’t remember them being taken, but he has a tendency to zone out. He looks good, if he does say so himself. Zayn’s smoldering into the distance in half of them.

“These are so embarrassing,” Zayn whines, trying to turn the camera off.

“Stop, they are not.” Harry brings the camera an inch away from his face, scrutinizing pictures that Zayn can’t see.

Zayn can’t deny that he looks good though. When he took drama class with Louis, Lou would always tease him about how he should go into modelling instead. He’s flattered that Harry took so many pictures of him, but it’s not like he had many objects to photograph within the bleak town.

“Should we head home now?”

Zayn nods, linking their fingers when they stand.

-

His cousins attack him in hugs, hard thumps on the back accompanying from the male ones. His uncles are fairly loud, moving to the garage to do whatever. Zayn’s aunts fawn over Harry like crazy. They run their hands through his hair and pinch his cheeks.

Harry’s flushed and glowing. It’s the only way to describe him. Zayn’s trying to win Jenga with Safaa and a couple of his younger cousins when he feels a heavy weight come across his back and arms drape over his shoulders.

“Come outside with me.”

“I’m playing, H.”

“Please,” Harry pleads, lips so close to his ear he can smell the sweetness of the balushahi. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Gross!” Safaa squeals, nearly knocking the blocks down.

Zayn gets up with a huff, grabbing Harry’s hand as they walk through the thin crowd. Zayn reaches for his back pocket only to realize that he doesn’t have his pack of smokes. He stops in his tracks, contemplates turning around for them.

It doesn’t stop Harry from settling on the stairs, leaning back on his elbows and staring at the scattered stars. “I really love your family.”

“You dragged me all the way out here to tell me that?” Zayn asks, joining him.

“Yeap,” Harry says proudly. His cheeks are so pink they’re nearly brighter than his lips.

The summer air is chilled around them, not a person in sight.

“So, how traditional is Doniya’s wedding going to be?”

Zayn scratches his belly, looks down at his socked feet. “There are a ton of ceremonies and traditions. Like, there’s this ceremony called mayun, where the bride basically gets a yellow turmeric paste put on their skin and it was to make their skin look better or something, but now it’s just tradition. The bride’s supposed to be secluded for 8-14 days before the wedding, but Doniya didn’t really fancy that. And they aren’t doing like, the traditional baraat thing.” At Harry’s confused brow, Zayn explains, “The groom comes in on a horse with music and dancers. They also did the mehndi party a couple of days early.”

“That’d be fun, coming in on a horse.”

“Yeah, and bloody expensive.” Zayn can hear a burst of laughter from inside, warmth spreading through him. “But tomorrow they’re having the Nikah ceremony at the mosque where they’ll say their I do's, but in Islam you say Kabul. Its close relatives only, but then we’re going to a banquet hall for like, a modern reception with a bunch of their friends. I could’ve sworn I told you this.” 

“Nope,” Harry shakes his head. “So, do I wear two different outfits? I only brought one suit.”

“You can wear the same suit.” Zayn’s quite excited to see Harry in his suit, his mum will go crazy when she sees their subtle matching. _God_ , there’s going to be so many pictures of them together for years. “We just like, kneel while we watch it and drink to their health and eat this thing that gets passed around.”

Harry hums under his breath. The moon’s shining down on his face, casting it in shadows. “Thanks for letting me come. I know – I know you weren’t crazy about me coming, but I’m glad you let me.”

Zayn’s heart beats faster, denial on the tip of his tongue. He wonders if Liam told him anything or if his hesitance and dislike was evident. “It’s good having you here. My mum loves you.”

“Yeah?” Harry asks, knocking their knees together. “What about you?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

Harry breaks out into one of the cheekiest smiles Zayn’s ever seen. “Ha! Cocky.”

“You’re insufferable,” Zayn groans, burying his head in his hands.

“Hey, hey Zayn.” Zayn heaves a sigh, more for show than anything. “I’m really excited for the wedding tomorrow.”

“Good. Me too. S’gonna be weird, like always having someone else with her whenever we see each other.” Zayn’s never fancied being a third wheel and even with Sophia and Liam they never make him feel like an outsider.

“Well,” Harry says, sliding over until their pinkies are linked. “Now you have me.”

-

Zayn scratches his beard, taking in the sight of Doniya. She’s in a red and gold shalvar kazeem, hair falling in massive curls around her face. She looks beautiful, more beautiful than Zayn’s ever dreamed she could be.

“Nervous?” He asks, trying not to think of Harry, waiting for the men to be led into the mosque.

He’d come with Jawaad, Zayn choosing to get ready with his sisters, aunts and cousins. Waliyha had done his hair all fancy, curling it a bit so it fell down the right side of his face. He’d grown out a bit of stubble as well. He looks good, he knows he does. And if he wasn’t here with Harry he’d probably get off with a cute girl from Tariq’s family.

As it is, they’d agree to play it up now that they’ve got tons of eyes on them. They had stayed awake far too late, agreeing to be more affectionate during the day. Zayn knew it would be a highly emotional day, but he didn’t expect to feel how he does now. He’s going to be leaning onto Harry to stop himself from crying.

Doniya rolls her eyes so big, he fears a false eyelash will come off. “I just don’t want to fuck up. His family’s already mad that this isn’t traditional enough.”

“Fuck them,” Zayn says quietly, wary of Safaa jumping around in her sari. It’s black and gold and matches Waliyha’s.

He scratches at his collar, regretting wearing a shirt underneath his sherwani. Although the material’s made of artificial silk, it doesn’t breathe easily.

Doniya’s red, red lips pull into a smile, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him in for a tight hug. “Love you, kid.”

“Love you too.” Zayn swallows past the lump in his throat. His sister’s getting _married_. Spending individual time with her will be a rarity, a novelty. “I’m so proud of you. Won’t be a Malik anymore.”

“Hadid,” Doniya says, making a mock-disgusted face. Zayn knows her lack of enthusiasm is a front; she’d pretty much been ready to change all her government documents after Tariq proposed. “What if I embarrass myself?”

“How? All you’ve got to do is say Kabul.”

“What if I forget?” Doniya looks so seriously frightened that Zayn takes her in for another hug, mindful of her outfit.

“Hey, stop overthinking it. You look gorgeous, I’m so happy for you.”

Trisha’s crying in the corner, fussing with her sister-in-law over her hair.

“Happy for _you_ ,” Doniya corrects. “Harry looks amazing by the way. Sent me a picture.”

“Really? What’s he look like?” Zayn asks. He hasn’t even seen Harry’s suit jacket. He’d put it in a black garment bag and Zayn’s curiosity hadn’t gotten the better of him until now.

Doniya wiggles her eyebrows.

“Alright Zayn, you’re out sunshine!” Trisha announces, pulling him in for a hug. “Everyone get in for a cuddle, you won’t be seeing him for a while.”

His female cousins finally abandon the various mirrors scattered around their family room to hug him. He gives his mum a tight squeeze and then tries to wrap his arms around each one of his sisters. It’s their last Malik hug, the feeling is heavy in his chest.

“Love you,” he tells them, kissing each one’s forehead.

And then he’s climbing into his mum’s car, blasting music and rolling down the window.

-

Harry’s in conversation with Sanjay on the stairs of the mosque when Zayn exits his vehicle.

He looks – he looks good and for a moment Zayn feels like the sun is shining directly on Harry. For a moment, Zayn’s annoyed at how eager Harry looks to be speaking with Sanjay. His hands are flailing around and he’s staring at him intently. He’s supposed to be here with Zayn, not flirting with some other guy.

The loud voices of male relatives filter out when Harry turns to him and _shit_ , he’s smiling directly at Zayn. He must have been staring at him like some jealous creep.

“Zayn!” Harry calls, skipping down the steps and knocking into him with such force Zayn stumbles off kilter. “You look amazing, your hair,” he gushes, reaching up to touch it.

“Stop,” Zayn whines, although there’s no heat to it. He can’t help smiling. It’s because it’s Doniya’s big day, most definitely. Not because Harry’s staring at him like he’s the best thing he’s ever seen. He traces the embroidery on his sherwani, smoothing invisible wrinkles.

“You clean up nice, hey?”

Harry grins again, smiling prettily. His hair’s not as frizzy as it was the day previously, lips pink and plush. Zayn wonders if he let Waliyha apply some blush before he left this morning, his cheeks are so coloured.

“Got to if I’m standing next to you all day.”

“Charmer,” Zayn laughs. He links their fingers together before dragging him around to meet more of Tariq’s relatives.

Hardly anyone bats an eye at the fact that they’re holding hands, more interested in how Zayn feels about his sister getting married than his relationship. Zayn converses in a mixture of Urdu and English. Most of the older men prefer to speak in Urdu, occasionally switching back and forth. Harry looks lost, clinging to Zayn’s hand until it’s sweaty in his palm.

When the men are let in to the mosque, Harry’s forced into the middle of the crowd while Zayn kneels in the front row. He turns around sporadically, even when the women enter and kneel on the other side of the floor. Doniya makes her grand entrance, joining Tariq in front of everyone.

It’s a beautiful event and Zayn only tears up twice.

He can feel eyes on his back the entire time.

-

Harry’s in the parking lot waiting for him, leaning against Zayn’s mum’s car. His eyes are red and slightly swollen. He licks his lips when Zayn nears, kissing him on the cheek and wrapping both arms around his waist and burying his nose against Zayn’s neck.

“Hey, you alright?” Zayn asks, running his hand up and down Harry’s back. His throat constricts when Harry sniffles loudly, whining. Harry tightens his hold around Zayn’s lower back, drawing him in closer.

“Was really beautiful,” Harry admits.

Zayn wheezes out a laugh, anxiety uncoiling at how ridiculous Harry is. “Oh my God, I thought you were sad or something.”

“I am sad. I want to get married.” Harry nuzzles Zayn’s neck, kissing the skin. “Let’s get married.”

Zayn pulls back, tapping Harry’s runny nose. “You’d just cry all over me,” Zayn laughs. If Harry cries this hard over the wedding for two people he doesn’t know, he can’t imagine what he’d be like on his wedding day. He’d look gorgeous though. “Did you understand any of that?”

The imam didn’t have a very loud voice and half the time he was switching between languages. Zayn wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t catch over half of it.

Harry shrugs, sheepish smile on his features. He unlatches a hand from Zayn’s sherwani to shake out his hair. “It was still beautiful.”

Recklessly, Zayn presses a kiss to Harry’s laughing cheek. “Want to drive the car to my house? Louis’ll take you to the reception.”

“Want to stay with you,” Harry pouts. He steps closer again, so they’re pressed against each other.

Zayn takes a half step back, but the last thing he wants is for Harry to make a scene like the last time Harry had gotten too close. “I’ve got to take pictures with my family, babes.”

The affectionate name gets a smile out of Harry until he’s nodding. “ _Fine_. But I’ll miss you,” he says it syrupy sweet, with a smile to match. If anyone else had said it, Zayn would laugh at them. It sounds sincere from Harry, like he genuinely will miss Zayn if he leaves for a second.

“No one’s even around, Harry,” Zayn tells him as Harry takes a step closer.

“Your cousins are watching.” Harry touches Zayn’s jaw, brushes the backs of his knuckles against Zayn’s scruff. He bobs his head to the left. “Don’t look, don’t be obvious.” Zayn nods. They’ve got to build a bubble, intimacy. “You should kiss me. Be like, believable. For them.”

It would be quite hilarious for Jawaad to see him kissing Harry. It’d look good to have his cousins witness their relationship, tell their mums like the finks they are.

Harry’s eyes drop to Zayn’s lips, unwavering.

“Yeah. Yeah, alright,” Zayn nods, already licking his lips in preparation. Harry’s staring at him when he looks back, eyes soft and affectionate. He’s so good at this. Zayn’s got to step up his game. He tucks an unruly curl behind Harry’s ear, leans in.

Their first kiss hadn’t even been a proper kiss; Zayn too surprised to really react back at the park. He’s determined to make this one good, get Harry’s stamp of approval.

It’s ridiculous to want to impress Harry, but Zayn does. He presses his lips against Harry’s slightly parted, then pulls away only to kiss him twice in quick succession until Harry hums under his breath. Zayn kisses him harder, drawing Harry in with a hand to his lapel. Harry smiles into their next kiss, Zayn’s lips touching more teeth than skin. 

Harry laughs a full belly laugh, breaking their moment.

It was – it was _nice_ , but it wasn’t earth shattering – wasn’t the complete tease Zayn had wanted to give him. Objectively, Zayn knows if he asked Harry would let him kiss him again. He’s blushing like a bashful schoolgirl.

Zayn clears his throat, realizing Harry’s just staring at him. “Good?” He asks, going for nonchalant, but his voice cracks a bit at the end.

“It’ll do for now,” he winks, rocking back on his heels.

Zayn glances to where Harry’d said his cousins were except – except there’s nothing there except for a few trees. Looking around the rest of the lot, it seems that most of the attendees have their backs turned to them.

Sneakily, Harry lifts Zayn’s sherwani. “Wha-”

Harry laughs under his breath as he reaches into the generous pocket of Zayn’s baggy pants, withdrawing his keys. In the five seconds it had taken Harry to steal them, Zayn had taken in a sharp breath.

Harry leans in, kissing Zayn’s cheek, the corner of his lip as Zayn breathes it all out with a shaky laugh.

“You’re awful,” Zayn grumbles, one hand still holding Harry’s hip. Still, he presses a kiss to the tip of Harry’s nose before he goes, a spring in his step.

-

Zayn’s face hurts from smiling so much, but he just can’t help it.

Walking into the reception hall, it’s easy to get lost in the hugs and handshakes he receives from everyone congratulating him. He has conversation after conversation; with family, friends, and random people he’s never met before. Music is playing loudly enough to drown out conversations around him, but quietly enough not to yell over it. The atmosphere’s amazing.

He’s chatting with one of Doniya’s schoolmates, a beautiful blonde named Rebecca he had had a crush on when he was a kid. Her eyes are the same bright blue he’d remembered them being, but her hair’s gotten longer, falling in loose curls down the left side of her shoulder.

“You look great, Zed. I can’t believe you’re all grown up.”

Zayn very much does not blush when she reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. “You too,” he grins. His fourteen-year-old self would be jumping on the couch with excitement.

“I mean it. Are you seeing anyone?” She’s got a flute of champagne in her hand, waving it around as the bubbly liquid splashes up the side.

Zayn nearly shakes his head, too caught up in the excitement and whimsical feel of the event. His sister and Tariq are yet to make their arrival and everyone’s buzzing.

“Yeah, I’m actually here with my boyfriend.”

“Oh,” Rebecca frowns. “I hadn’t realized, I mean. Doniya never said you were gay.”

“Bi,” Zayn corrects quickly. Rebecca’s lips quirk at that, playfulness overtaking her once disappointed features. “He’s-”

Zayn feels a weight drop against his back – a very Harry weight. He can feel Harry’s curls against his neck, the tell-tale heave of his chest as he breathes in. “Hi, I’m Harry.”

He announces it loudly, beer evident on his breathe as he speaks. Zayn shies away from it only to have Rebecca eye them. Shit.

“Rebecca,” she says politely, shaking his hand. “I was just telling Zayn how great he looks.”

Harry kisses Zayn’s cheek before moving out from behind him. “Doesn’t he? And we match!” Harry runs his hands down his body in a flourish before swinging an arm around Zayn’s waist and pulling him in. It’s possessive, territorial. Zayn had thought Harry oblivious to Rebecca’s glare, but he seems to be better at passive aggressive than Zayn had thought.

Still, his obvious display of dominance isn’t flattering. Zayn’s not some toy that Harry can claim and get stroppy over when Zayn’s unavailable.

“Harry,” Zayn warns, only to be completely ignored by Rebecca’s hum.

“You do,” she says, eyebrow raised. She’s in a navy blue dress that barely reaches mid-thigh.

“Anyway, we’ve got to go now. It was nice meeting you!” Harry takes Zayn’s hand before pulling them both away. It’s a tad rude, but Harry doesn’t seem to care. “She was hitting on you,” he complains.

“Yeah and you made sure I was yours, didn’t you?” Zayn knows it’s irrational, but Harry didn’t have to be so blatantly rude.

“Obviously.” Zayn hadn’t expected the admission. It lifts some of the anger he feels, seeing Harry’s eyebrows pulled together angrily. Before he can grill him farther, Harry leads them to the bar, ordering a tonic water. “What’ll you have? I’ll buy.”

“It’s free bar, idiot.”

“Oh yeah,” Harry blushes wonderfully. The rest of his anger dissipates. There’s really no reason for him to be mad at Harry, not when he was playing along with their scheme.

“I’ll have a beer, I guess.”

Harry orders, then dumps some coins from his pocket into the near empty tip cup. “You do look good by the way. I know I’ve already said it, but.”

“You too, didn’t know you’d even had a suit jacket.”

Harry shakes out his hair, pushing it behind his ear only to have it flop back. “I used to wear blazers all the time with these god awful polos and chinos.”

Zayn can picture it is the thing, a cherubic Harry with wilder curls and redder lips. “Cute.”

“Not at all.” He thanks the bartender for their drinks, handing the beer to Zayn as he drinks his tonic water. “Louis showed me your yearbook by the way.” Zayn freezes, mortification overtaking him. Harry immediately laughs, looping their arms together. A few people stare, but Zayn can’t find it in him to care with the way Harry’s lit up. “You were hot, the American letterman jacket was very… American-y.”

“Yeah? You got a thing for American footballers?”

Harry laughs, gulping more of his drink until they’re depositing themselves at their table. “Nah. Much preferred that picture of you in a leather jacket as a T-Bird.”

Zayn’d nearly forgotten about the picture of him and Louis in the production of Grease. They’re in matching leather jackets and rolled jeans, white t-shirts tight around their chests. They’re leaning against the car they used, smoldering into the faux distance. It’s idiotic and self-important; a stupid picture they’d taken for a laugh that Louis keeps in a frame on his nightstand.

“That’s so embarrassing,” Zayn whines, drinking a larger sip than he’d intended. He refuses to get drunk while his older relatives are here.

“It’s not. The camera loves you, you know that.”

“Yeah?” Zayn laughs, bumping his shoulder with Harry’s. They’re ignoring the other guests, but fuck it. Zayn had greeted nearly everyone already and if he wants to spend time with his boyfriend then he’s entitled to do so. It would look good if they were together, legitimately.

“Yeah. You’re like those French girls, never take a bad picture.”

Zayn barks out a laugh, startling a couple walking behind him. “If that’s a titanic reference, you’ve got it all wrong. The French girls are drawn, not photographed.”

Harry leans in close, gives him a cheeky smile. “But they are naked, aren’t they?” Zayn’s cheeks immediately redden, Harry straightening up with a self-satisfied smile.

“You’re an idiot.”

“Your idiot.”

“Oh my God. Please tell me I didn’t just hear that. I’m going to _puke_.” Zayn’s always loved how Louis makes his presence known, loud and thunderous. In this moment though, he could kill him. “You two are sickening. I can’t believe what I just heard.” Louis will never stop taking the piss out of them.

“Shut up,” Zayn grumbles while Harry just laughs. He makes grabby hands for Louis’ half empty drink.

“Control your idiot, Zayn.”

“Yeah, control your idiot, Zayn.” Harry wiggles his eyebrows, eyes comically wide.

Louis rolls his eyes, plunking himself in Jawaad’s seat instead of his own. “No. We are not doing this all night.” Louis already sounds bored of it.

“I like it,” Harry frowns, scooting his chair nearer Zayn. “When’s Mrs. Hadid arriving?”

Zayn shrugs, glancing around the room. Most people are in clumps, socializing. He knows over half the attendants, but he feels comfortable in the seclusion he has with Louis and Harry.

The magic of the day seems to be melting Zayn’s exasperation for Harry. When Harry tells a long-winded story about the time he forgot to take lime with a tequila shot, he finds himself laughing along with Louis. The story isn’t that great; something about licking too much salt and taking a too big shot. It takes him ten minutes to tell it, recounting what his friends were wearing and how his makeshift headband kept falling down while he was trying to take the shot.

“That was the world’s worst story,” Louis comments, finishing the last drips of his beer. He’s red faced from laughing.

“Don’t make fun of him. I thought it was great,” Zayn grabs Harry’s hand, kissing his knuckles. He does it for the way Louis fake gags, obviously.

Harry’s eyes positively sparkle. He opens his mouth, ready to say something when the lights dim.

Jawaad, one of two emcees, asks everyone to take their seats. The other emcee is Heena, one of Tariq’s cousins. Her sari matches Jawaad’s suit.

Music starts playing and then “Mr. and Mrs. Tariq Hadiiiiiiiddddddd” is being announced. Everyone starts cheering and clapping as Doniya and her new husband come in. She’s blushing and waving, laughing wildly as they dance around the room. They settle at the front, on a red chaise lounge, elevated on a stage. There’s a table in front of them, where they’ll eat dinner and have two sweating glasses of water.

Zayn can’t keep the smile off his face as he claps, feels proud and happy and the tiniest bit sad. His connection to Doniya has grown tenfold since they exited their teens, maturing and finding friendship within each other.

“I wish I had my camera,” Harry whisper shouts.

“They look fucking amazing!” Zayn hollers, uncaring if any of the older attendants hear him.

Harry takes a half step closer, until their arms are touching. “I meant you! You look so happy.”

Zayn doesn’t have anything to say to that really. So he smiles, nods, pays attention to his sister as she bows and waves and takes her seat. Heena starts talking then, allowing Zayn the courtesy not to answer Harry back right away.

They take their seats, listening as Heena and Jawaad tell stories of their cousin’s love. Heena speaks of how they met: in the library at university, Tariq watching Doniya through the shelves until she told him to ask for her number or leave. Tariq blushes while Doniya laughs along with the audience. Zayn hadn’t known they were dating for three months, hadn’t met him for another two and then it seemed like everyone else in his family had loved him like their own.

Jawaad recounts the first time Tariq had tried to make dinner for Doniya. It was a lamb and lentil stew that gave them both a violent case of food poisoning. He laughs as he explains that they thankfully had two toilets, and Doniya had demanded to take a shower and put on makeup before she re-emerged.

Harry reaches over none too subtly and squeezes Zayn’s hand. He looks a bit teary, but it’s to be expected. The stories are light-hearted, yet threaded with love.

“Alright?” He asks, dipping his head low. At Harry’s nod, Zayn kisses his cheek. It’s to comfort him, ducked out of view of the party-goers; just for them.

Harry blushes, twisting his hand until their fingers are intertwined. He looks so pleased with himself Zayn doesn’t bother to tease him.

Dinner is a fantastic buffet of all of Doniya and Tariq’s favourite foods. There’s channa pindi, paneer kadhai masala, chicken jalfrezi, to name a few. Zayn piles it all high on rice, with naan poking off the plate. Harry is trying to keep up with him, keeping all of his foods separate although the sauces mixing is inevitable.

“Try some murgh makhani,” Zayn offers, scooping the piping hot chicken onto a fork and serving it to Harry.

He chews thoughtfully, washing it down with a glass of water. “Tastes like butter chicken to me.”

Zayn’s cousin snorts across from them. “It is,” Zayn explains, “just, we call it the proper name.”

“Oh,” Harry ducks his head, blushing while his hair falls in front of his face. Zayn hadn’t meant to embarrass him, really. Just wanted him to know the proper name.

“Try some methi lamb,” Zayn says next. He ignores the interest everyone at their table has seemed to take in them. Harry makes the right guess at which meat it is on his plate.

“Yeah, s’good,” Harry asserts. He sends Zayn a grateful smile. Zayn returns it, spice settling down the back of his throat. Until –

Until Harry snatches a piece of naan like the dirty thief he is.

“Hey!” Zayn squawks, wrestling to get it back. Harry shoves it in his mouth. “You-”

The piece was big is the thing; big enough to take Zayn two or three generous bites. Harry grins at him, while Louis cackles. “You’ve got quite the mouth, haven’t you Harold?”

Harry attempts to laugh, choking on his bread until he chews through it enough to swallow. He gulps a generous mouthful of air before following suit with his drink. “Slow down a bit,” Zayn instructs. “The elders will leave in an hour or so and then we can all drink.”

“Oh.” Harry places his glass of rum and coke onto the table, switching it for his water. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” one of Zayn’s cousin pipes up from across the table. He’s wearing a bright blue suit and has dark thick eyebrows like Zayn. “Zayn got super drunk at my brother’s wedding three years ago. It was hilarious.”

Everyone laughs at his expense, but it’s not uncomfortable.

The party buzzes him, music playing through the sound system until their plates are being cleared and dessert is announced. Zayn helps himself to the various sweets, avoiding the gajar halwa. He doesn’t have a penchant for carrots for dessert, but knows that it’s one of Doniya’s favourites.

Harry heaps his plate with jalebi, licking his fingers after every nibble.

“You’re going to eat yourself sick,” Zayn comments. Still, he snatches a sticky sweet swirl for himself.

“You’d hold my hair,” Harry gives him that disarming smile again, the one that has Zayn scrambling to catch up with what he’s just said. Harry’s flirtatious banter throws him for a loop half the time, but he’s always loved a good bout of flirtation.

“I’d hold it for something else,” he whispers, pinching the orange sweet from Harry’s finger when his jaw drops.

“I-” he stammers, staring from Zayn to the sweet. It’s the first time Zayn’s said something so confidently, retorted something equally as suggestive.

“M’I giving you two a ride home tonight?” Louis asks with his mouth around the lip of his beer bottle. “I mean me mum, she drove us.”

The image of Louis in the passenger seat while his mum drives him around is utterly hilarious. Louis was a terrible driver to begin with, but he had always insisted on doing it. Still, a ride from Mrs. Tommo… or Deakin now, is better than paying for a taxicab.

“Yes please,” Zayn nods, licking the back of his spoon. He feels Harry’s eyes on the side of his face.

“You’re sitting in the front then; won’t have you getting off in the back of mum’s van.”

“We-” Harry starts, sounding indignant and defensive, the pretty, permanent blush on his cheek gives him away though.

After their plates are cleared, a couple more speeches are made. Doniya cries when Waliyha goes on and on about how dearly she loves her, bringing the crowd to tears when she says she’s glad Doniya’s found someone that will take care of her as well as Doniya’s taken care of her. She gives her a hug, making a show of whispering something in her ear. Sanjay welcomes Doniya into the family, swaying drunkenly while the crowd pretends not to notice. Tariq claps him on the back, nods his head to Zayn.

And then just like that the elders are making their exit. Zayn stands by the door with the happy couple and the rest of his family, hugging and kissing his aunties until the oldest people in the room are his parents. The DJ plays the music a little louder, Harry flailing his body as music plays.

Zayn can’t help but laugh as Harry dances worse than anyone he’s ever seen. Harry’s a confident dancer, doesn’t care about what anyone seems to think. It’s magnetic, the way Zayn feels himself shimmy, then sway, then wave his arms around like Harry does.

Louis’ jumping around; weaving and bopping, patting the dog and screwing the lightbulb. He does a few leg kicks with Yaser and his brothers, then twirls and twirls and twirls until he’s swaying with a beautiful redhead that Zayn’s never seen before.

Doniya and Tariq’s friends are in a dance circle, swaying and shaking. He catches Rebecca’s eye, turning obviously when she winks. She’s pretty, there’s no doubt about it, but – Zayn’s here with Harry, plain and simple.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Harry shouts. He’s shimmying his hips with his arms above his head and looks utterly ridiculous. Still, Zayn’s drawn to him.

“What’s that?” It’s an excuse to move closer, to duck into Harry’s space. If it gets Rebecca to narrow her eyes and look away, well then it’s merely a coincidence that it adds to Zayn’s ego.

“Like fate, do you believe that everyone has a soulmate?”

Zayn searches for his sister in the crowd. Her smile is so big, her eyes so squinted that Zayn nods faster than he can formulate words. “Yeah,” Zayn nods.

Harry kisses him then, right in the middle of the dance floor. Zayn’s laugh breaks them up. Which, to be fair, Harry was grinning so big it hadn’t really been much of a kiss.

Harry does a few spins, hair flying everywhere until he ties it up. He grabs Trisha and dances circles with her while Zayn lifts and spins Safaa until she’s giggling so hard she looks like she’s about to puke.

“Grab a drink with me?” Harry’s taken off his jacket, a plain black button up underneath. It’s rolled up his forearms, dark tattoos on show. Similarly, Zayn takes off his sherwani when they settle at their table, drinks in hand. It doesn’t take long for Zayn to finish the first drink, too parched from jumping and singing to argue at the burn of alcohol.

Sanjay seems fairly drunk, Louis flushed and sweaty in the way that indicates intoxication.

Harry checks his messages while they’re sitting, snapping a blurry photo before slipping it into the pocket inside his coat. It really is a lovely coat.

“More?” Harry asks, wiping his palms against his thighs and – they are lovely, lovely thighs, Zayn notes. Strong and lean, yet, there’s meat there, there’s definitely meat there. Zayn’s seen him in ridiculously tiny shorts after all. After Harry had run, sweaty and heaving, with his stupid hair curling from sweat. He –

Harry gets them two shots of rum, chasing it down with coke so fizzy, Zayn has to cough to stop from vomiting. “Having fun?” Harry asks, looking at the empty tables. Everyone seems to be on their feet dancing around the newlyweds.

“Course. Thanks for coming, Harry. It really means a lot.”

Harry grins, biting his lip before darting in for a kiss on Zayn’s dry lips. The bartender eyes them, placing their drinks on the countertop before eying the tip jar. With a sigh, Zayn drops a few coins into it before taking their drinks and steering Harry onto the balcony.

The fresh air slaps him in the face, clean and cool.

Harry’s silent as they look at the cars passing the banquet center. He sips his drink, a double cranberry that had Zayn pursing his lips. He’s never been a fan of tartness. Zayn snorts into his ginger yule, glancing at how Harry’s now finished his drink and has three of his top buttons undone. He’s quite the tart all right.

“What?” Harry frowns.

“Nothing, just. Tart.”

Harry’s frown stays where it is so Zayn just… kisses him.

Harry squeaks, before settling into the kiss. His mouth is wet and the slightest bit sour when Zayn licks into it. Harry melts into him, hands holding to Zayn’s waist, glass suspiciously gone. But Zayn has better things to worry about. Like the way Harry’s breath hitches when Zayn nips his bottom lip, the way Harry digs his fingers into Zayn’s skin when he tries to subtly tilt his crotch away from him, the way Harry can’t seem to catch his breath as they kiss and kiss and kiss.

It’s not until the sound of raucous laughter breaks into their bubble that they pull apart.

For a moment, Zayn’s afraid Harry will run away, but he only grips Zayn’s t-shirt collar and buries his face into his neck. Zayn wraps his arms around Harry, shaking with laughter. It’s Louis of course, kissing the redhead against the railing adjacent to them.

“Oi!” Zayn calls, only to huff a breath when Harry pinches his shoulder and tells him to leave them alone.

Louis’ head snaps over to them, mischievous smirk plastered on his face. “Safaa wants to dance with Harry again!” Louis tells them, focusing back on his… friend.

“Can’t leave the princess waiting,” Harry whispers, licking Zayn’s neck for no apparent reason before dragging them back into the stuffy room.

Zayn parts with him to use the bathroom, pissing before splashing water on his face. He doesn’t look too bad, but his hair’s a mess. It’s a wonder Harry kissed him with it looking like this. Harry kissed him. Proper, no one around kissing. What’s more surprising is that Zayn didn’t mind it. It’s a wedding after all, everyone hooks up with someone at weddings. Take Louis for example, he’d found someone within minutes of dancing.

So Zayn decides, as he twists his hair into a bun, if Harry kisses him again, he’ll try for a shag, and if Harry avoids him, ducks out of a kiss, or looks disgusted at the thought of hooking up, Zayn will halt it and call the whole thing off.

It’s not like he really likes him anyway.

With renewed confidence, Zayn steps back onto the dance floor. Except – except Harry’s dancing with Sanjay. It’s not provocative or anything he just doesn’t like the way Harry’s shimmying with his shirt undone and his nipples showing. Or the way Sanjay’s very openly staring at his chest. Sanjay’s not even _gay_ for Christ’s sake, not even the littlest amount homosexual as far as Zayn had been informed.

Which is why Zayn makes the very smart – and intoxicated – decision to swing an arm around Harry’s waist and pull him into him. Harry jerks forward, biting his bottom lip. He looks ready to devour Zayn. They’ve got the hall for another hour or so, Zayn’s parents driving his sisters to stay with their cousins for the night. They live a fair fifteen minutes in the opposite direction of Zayn’s house, buying them plenty of time to get up to something.

“Zayn,” Harry pants. He’s staring at Zayn’s lips with so much unadulterated want that Zayn has half a mind to push Harry to his knees right there. “Take me home, want to go home with you.”

“Yeah, Harry,” Zayn nods, rolling his hips. His fucking parents are ten feet away, turned away as they dance with Tariq and Doniya. With a glance around, Zayn sees that Louis’ suspiciously disappeared. Half his family has trickled out as well.

“Now, can’t wait.” Harry’s drunk, smelling sweet and sugary as he kisses Zayn’s cheek sloppily.

“Give me a few minutes, alright? Got to find Lou; go dance with Saf.”

Harry lights up, then scampers away to find the youngest Malik.

Zayn finds Louis when he’s on his way back to the balcony. He’s tucking his shirt in with a laugh, coming from where the chairs are stored. He’s also alone which is a bit worrying.

“Lou?”

His head whips up, sly smirk. Zayn raises an eyebrow, answered silently by Louis’ wink until they’re laughing. “I’ll text my mum, yeah?” Zayn waits while Louis texts. Looking over his shoulder he sees the redhead slipping out of the room and scurrying to the bar.

Louis glances over his shoulder at her, not seeming satisfied until she walks away with a bright pink drink. “So,” Zayn prompts, tucking his hands into his pants pockets.

“So,” Louis wiggles his eyebrows. “Just a quick blowie, got her off pretty quick too.”

“Name?” Zayn asks, noticing how she sidles up next to one of Doniya’s uni mates.

“Jess? Gem? Jen? Fuck, I don’t know! Let’s get one more drink.”

Zayn’s last drink is a strong one, racing with Louis to see who can finish it first. “Hey,” its Harry’s characteristically drawn-out whine that has Zayn zoning out of Louis’ conversation. “You drank without me.”

“You’ve had enough,” Zayn says, stroking Harry’s hair back.

“Take me home,” Harry pouts, puckering his lips until he’s barely kissing Zayn’s stubble. “Love the way that feels.”

Zayn doesn’t even scold him, just snorts when Louis sounds like he’s about to die. “You lot are the horniest bastards I’ve ever met.”

“Well if Zayn did something, maybe I wouldn’t be.” It’s a challenge. Has got to be with the way Harry’s lips part and his eyes set.

“Maybe I will.” That seems to satisfy Harry enough to relax his features, snuggling up to Zayn’s side even though it’s sweltering.

They say goodbye before Jay’s arrival, hugging and kissing relatives. Harry stays glued to Zayn’s side when he says a farewell to Rebecca, refusing to let them do more than a handshake.

Trisha gives them a pointed look. “We’ll be home no earlier than one,” Yaser tells them. Harry giggles.

“Dad,” Zayn groans, except then Trisha opens her mouth. The last thing they need right now is a safe sex lecture, so Zayn kisses her cheek before hugging his sister and Tariq one last time. They’re both drunk, soon to stay in an expensive hotel before their honeymoon in the Netherlands.

Zayn climbs into the front of Louis’ mum’s car, much to Harry’s dismay. He sits diagonally, so Harry can’t even touch him if he wanted to. The car ride is filled with Louis’ loud, drunk commentary. Zayn tilts his head back and closes his eyes, getting swept up in the sound of Louis screaming and his mum scolding him. They must smell horrid; the windows cracked and air conditioning blaring. Jay’s wrapped up in a housecoat with a hoodie underneath.

“Thank you for driving,” Harry says politely once they’ve stopped outside Zayn’s house.

“Anything for you Harry dear. Next time you’re in Bradford, you let me know.”

“I will,” Harry says dutifully, leering around the headrest to give her a kiss on the cheek. He gives Louis one too, loud and wet until Louis shoves him out of the van.

It takes Zayn one try to unlock the door, then he’s toeing off his shoes, placing his sherwani over the top of the couch. He can hear Harry’s heavy footfalls after him.

“Zayn.” Harry’s voice is barely more than a whisper. In an instant, Harry’s wrapping his arms around Zayn, front stuck to Zayn’s back. “Want you.”

It’s a sigh, an admission that sounds so vulnerable; Zayn can’t bring himself to respond verbally. So he doesn’t. He takes Harry’s hand in his and leads him up the stairs.

“Put on some music?” Harry asks, slipping out of his blazer. He lets it fall to the floor, unbothered by its crumpled state.

“Like mood music?” Zayn asks, already pulling up his music app. He likes the fact that Harry’s asked. He always finds himself self-conscious when his voice is one of the only sounds in the room.

Harry turns on the lamp in the corner of the room. It’s bulky and out of place, but it basks the room in a glowing light. Zayn flips through his music, dissatisfied with his lack of playlist. Is one artist too boring?

Before he can make a new playlist, Harry starts kissing the back of his neck. 

“C’mon, just put on The Weeknd or something.” Harry kisses just below his ear, grabbing his hips.

“You like that?” Zayn asks, letting the music play through his Bluetooth speaker.

Harry nods as the first few bars sound. It’s not too loud, just right enough to be sexy. He can picture the way Harry will moan over it, moan his name like he’s been doing all night. Christ, Zayn feels like he’s in the middle of a porno it’s so cheesy.

“Touch me, I can’t wait.”

Zayn laughs, lets Harry’s eagerness wash over him “Kind of hard when you’re plastered to my back.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” Harry whines, sounding petulant and put-off.

But then Zayn’s turning around, one hand on Harry’s bicep and the other resting on the side of his neck. Harry looks so beautiful. His lips are cherry red and wet, his eyes big and excited. Zayn kisses his lips, too much force to seem as blasé as he’d hoped for. He wants to remain in control; wants to feel Harry’s resolve crumble until he knows nothing but Zayn’s name.

If this is going to happen, once and once only, Zayn’s going to make it count.

He pulls away much to Harry’s dismay if the small whine he makes after is anything to go by.

“C’mere,” Zayn urges, wanting to see how much dominance Harry will give him. Harry nods, connecting their lips again and again. He squeezes Zayn’s hips, tries to pull down his pants. There’s only an elastic waistband, but he doesn’t get very far before Zayn’s pulling away.

Zayn cups Harry’s dick, feels how hard he is for him. As he undoes his button and zipper, Harry can’t seem to hide how much he wants this. His hands go to Zayn’s shoulders, circling down his chest only to move back up and down his shoulder blades. “Take off your top,” Zayn instructs, reaching to take off his own undershirt.

Harry nods, watches Zayn undress before he’s taking the black shirt off and tossing it somewhere. He stares at Zayn’s lips, running his tongue over his own subconsciously. “Want to suck you off,” Harry tells him, eyes falling to where Zayn’s dick is tenting his loose pants.

“Yeah?”

“Mm,” Harry hums, reaching for him.

Zayn laughs as he lets Harry take off his pants, then his briefs. The song’s switched to something sexier, with a heavier bass and a higher falsetto.

Zayn knocks his fist against Harry’s bun. It doesn’t wobble. “Take your hair out.” In a flash, Harry’s fingers cup his bun, undoing the bright pink elastic that was holding it back.

Harry’s compliance is intoxicating, giving Zayn a slew of things he wants to do to him – with him. Zayn gets his hands in Harry’s slightly kinked hair, giving it an experimental pull. Harry’s response is automatic: a gasp, blown eyes, followed by a groan so loud, it would wake a sleeping household.

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, wrapping his fingers around some of the ends.

Harry nods, shuffling closer to Zayn. He doesn’t hesitate before taking Zayn into his mouth. He takes him like it’s nothing, the suction too good for Zayn to hold back a thrust.

Harry’s fingers tighten around Zayn’s thighs, bringing him in closer. Zayn can feel his body sway with Harry’s enthusiastic bobs, his hips rolling the slightest amount. The back of his neck is sticky with sweat, tongue heavy in his mouth. His teeth are numb, too much alcohol to properly feel how coated in gunk they are.

“Fuck,” Zayn whines, tugging on the roots of Harry’s hair. It’s at the nape of his head, makes Harry groan around him.

He pulls off, licking the spit off his lip. He’s got some drooling down his chin, but he seems unbothered. “You alright?” He asks, pressing the heel of his hand against his cock before grasping the base of Zayn’s dick. Harry’s hand is _massive_.

“Mm, keep going.”

Harry does, his mouth so wet and tight Zayn can’t keep himself still. His fingernails scratch Harry’s scalp, making him take more and more until Harry’s practically nosing Zayn’s pubic bone. Zayn’s never been overtly big, nothing like how he imagines Harry is, but he knows what to do with it, knows how to fuck someone until they’re begging.

Surprisingly, Harry’s the one who whines uncomfortably when Zayn pulls his hips back, let’s his dick fall from Harry’s lips.

“On the bed,” Zayn nods.

Harry complies, wiggling out of his jeans and boxers until they’re equally naked. Zayn gets them onto the bed, flopping around until he’s covering Harry’s body with his own, dick resting against Harry’s thigh. Harry runs his fingertips up Zayn’s spine until he’s got a hand around the back of his neck; the other resting on the cleft of his arse.

“God, look at you,” Zayn muses. Harry’s body is amazing. Now that he’s got him lied out on the bed, legs splayed and Zayn between them, he fully appreciates his beauty. He presses a kiss to Harry’s collarbone and brushes his lips to one of his nipples. He kisses each of the four, laughing as Harry squirms underneath him. “Freak,” he laughs, tweaking one.

“S’just more to go around.” Harry’s voice is deep, slurred.

“Yeah?” Zayn brushes his fingers over a smaller one, pinching it. Harry shivers, body arching into the touch. He’s got tiny little love handles, stomach carved with gentle abs. Zayn’s never cared much for the physicality of his one night-ers, but Harry’s is gorgeous. He’s all long limbs and soft skin, smells like sweat and a bit like alcohol, but so much like what Zayn’s grown to know as Harry.

“Want you, come on,” Harry whines, thrusting his hips to get Zayn’s attention.

Zayn pinches his hip for that, getting a soft groan out of Harry.

“Come on Zayn, touch me.”

Zayn grips Harry’s dick in his hand for half a heartbeat before letting it fall between them. “There.”

“Zayn,” Harry whines, kicking his legs this time. It’s impatient and childish, but so endearing. Zayn strokes his hair out of his face, kisses Harry’s sweaty cheek.

The urgency Harry feels must have been knocked out of him. His energy simmers, hands no longer gripping Zayn’s skin with painful enthusiasm. Their noses knock together, lips connecting over and over again until they’re clutching at each other, rutting and moaning so close to the edge.

“Babe, Harry.” Harry hums, hands spread out on Zayn’s shoulder blades. “Want to get off like this?”

Harry shakes his head, hooking his leg around Zayn’s thigh. He grinds up, contradictory.

“How?”

“Any way,” Harry’s lips try to find Zayn’s. He gets his cheekbone though, lips eventually finding their way.

Zayn laughs, kissing Harry for his effort. “Want to fuck you.” Harry nods, breathless. Zayn grinds against him, pushing Harry flat against his mattress. The last time he’d had sex on it had been ages ago, worlds away. Harry looks lovely in it.

“I’m not picky though, you could fuck me if you want.” Harry’s fingers dig into his back, leg tightening around Zayn.

Harry doesn’t even seem to be listening, too focused on rubbing off on Zayn’s thigh. Despite what Harry said, he seems content to get off just like this. Harry mouths at Zayn’s neck, his collarbones. He bites down on the inked lips. Harry mumbles something against Zayn’s neck. It sounds like please.

Zayn heaves himself off the bed, much to Harry’s dismay. He digs around in his bedside drawer. He’s sure he’s got some lube and condoms hanging around. His fingers connect with an old watch, some loose papers, his Nintendo DS that no longer has a charger. When he lifts up an old art journal, he finds a near empty bottle of lube and a condom.

It’ll have to do.

“I um, I have some,” Harry confesses.

“Really?”

“In my toiletry bag,” he nods his head, too useless to get up. He fists his dick, tugging it while Zayn stands on wobbly legs to retrieve it. He finds a small, half used tube. Its tropical flavoured.

“You brought this?” Zayn waves it around, embarrassing Harry further.

“I have needs,” he pouts. He doesn’t look too put-off, making grabby hands when Zayn’s close to the bed. He pulls him down by his shoulders as Zayn narrowly avoids kneeing Harry in the dick.

“Yeah?” Zayn mouths at Harry’s neck, lips skimming every surface, feeling Harry moan under his lips. “How many times have you gotten off?”

“Three,” Harry confesses, his hands come back up to Zayn’s shoulders, unable to resist. “I,” Harry shudders when Zayn gets a hand under his arse, fingers skimming between his arse cheeks. “I fingered myself in the shower this morning. I – _Fuck_.”

Zayn opens Harry slowly, so slowly that Harry’s whining and moaning, twitching on the bed from the two fingers Zayn’s using. His chest has gone pink, heels digging into the mattress as Zayn fucks him open. It’s a little awkward with the angle, Zayn’s wrist twisting uncomfortably. He doesn’t stop though, doesn’t ask Harry to turn over because his face is a sight.

His lips are puffy and his eyes are clamped shut. His nostrils are flared and cheeks are a rosy pink. His hair is a mess on Zayn’s pillow, sweat making the baby hairs stick to his forehead like they had the other day. He looks gorgeous; more responsive than Zayn had thought he would be with the way he moans for it.

“M’ready,” Harry gasps, wrapping his arms around Zayn’s shoulders when he ducks down for a kiss. Zayn extracts his sticky fingers, pressing Harry’s knee into his own chest. Harry holds under his thigh, opening himself up.

“One more,” Zayn tells him, slicking up his fingers with a bit more lube. A shiver rolls through Harry’s body, leg splaying that much more when Zayn works up a rhythm. He’s dusting kisses over Harry’s clavicle, neck, up to his ear where he bites it once, teasing.

“Fuck me. Zayn, come on, need it.”

“Yeah?” Zayn asks, scissoring his fingers just to watch the way Harry’s mouth rounds around a gasp.

“Yeah, yeah. Ready, been waiting ages.”

Zayn slides on the condom, adding more lube than necessary before lining up with Harry. He takes a moment to just breathe, take in the sight in front of him. He’d never thought he’d even like Harry and yet, now they’re about to fuck. He’d laugh if it wasn’t so ridiculous. Then again, in two days’ time, they’ll go back to Manchester, they’re separate homes, separate beds, separate lives.

“Hey,” Harry brings him out of his train of thought. “You got all frowny, you alright?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, focusing on the way Harry’s stroking the tiny hairs on the top of Zayn’s thigh.

Then he’s leaning forward, kissing Harry as he tries to guide his dick into him. He’s met with a bit of resistance, but after Harry breathes Zayn’s name, tugs his neck down so their noses bump, Harry relaxes.

Zayn focuses very hard on not coming as soon as he bottoms out, so he withdraws slowly and pushes forward a bit more. Harry’s making tiny choking sounds at the back of his throat, smelling like booze and sweat.

When he starts to thrust his hips to meet Zayn, their pace quickens. Zayn’s not one who believes in fucking to the music playing, but he can’t help the way he grinds against Harry. Harry who seems like the breath is being punched out of him, who has to grab Zayn’s bicep and shoulder and neck so he can anchor himself.

He’s muttering these nonsensical things that Zayn doesn’t bother trying to make out. He can hear his name every few words, but it mostly sounds like gibberish. When Zayn twists one of Harry’s nipples, his cock spurts precome onto both of their stomachs.

Harry kisses Zayn’s lips hard, biting on the bottom one until Zayn can feel it throb.

“Your lips are like, Chilean guavas,” Harry mumbles and a confused laugh knocks itself out of Zayn’s chest.

“A what?” Zayn’s never had a guava, let alone a Chilean one.

Harry brushes a shaky thumb across Zayn’s lips, presses it against it until Zayn nips him. “A Chilean guava. They’re really, fuck, really red and they, _oh-my-god_.” Zayn smirks at that, at the ability he has to leave Harry breathless during his ramble. “They’re gaining popularity again, fuck, Zayn. _Zayn_.”

Harry’s lost now, any more mention of Chilean guava far from his mind as he pinches his eyes closed.

Zayn’s thankful his hair’s tied back because Harry’s is a mess. He doesn’t touch or correct it, just let’s stray hair flop against his forehead and twist underneath his head. Zayn can’t imagine how sweaty his neck is. Maybe he’ll breathe it in when they’re done, spooning close like the way Zayn’s been doing subconsciously.

“Close?” Zayn asks, unable to handle the way his hips jerk when Harry clenches around him.

“Mm,” Harry hums, nodding. He wraps a foot around Zayn’s thighs, until his heel is digging into Zayn’s arse cheek. “Feel so full.”

Harry’s eyes are still clamped shut, unable to look at Zayn. Zayn can’t seem to take his eyes off Harry’s face. He’s an open book, his face giving way to all of his emotions. It’s lovely. Zayn could fill an entire sketchbook based solely on the contortions Harry’s face makes when Zayn fucks him.

“Touch yourself.”

Harry does as told, fist bumping Zayn’s stomach on every upstroke. Zayn likes the feeling of control in missionary, likes the way Harry has no choice but to take what Zayn gives him. “Fuck, you feel good,” Zayn tells him, speeding his hips up until his lower back starts to feel strained.

Harry’s loud beneath him, mouth hanging open as he lets out unfiltered groans. Zayn has the impulse to cover his mouth, but his family’s not home, they can afford this luxury. So he joins Harry, groans into his neck, murmurs his name like a fucking prayer until he gives up to the pleasure and comes. The last time Zayn had fucked with this much abandon, he was still in university.

Zayn tries to keep it up for Harry, tries to fuck him as fast as he was before, but it seems like Harry doesn’t need all that. He comes with his face buried in Zayn’s neck, dick softening up his arse.

“Mm,” Harry hums, pulling Zayn until he’s got nowhere else to go. Zayn’s thighs burn, his lips ache. He needs ChapStick and a hot shower, stat.

“I’ve got to throw away the condom.”

“No,” Harry whines, smearing his come around on Zayn’s stomach.

“Harry, I’ll be back in a mo, alright?”

Harry doesn’t respond and he seems to be out cold after Zayn grabs a warm washcloth to clean them up with. He gets most of it off Harry before splashing water on his abdomen and drying it off with the hand towel. He’ll throw that in the wash later.

When he crawls back into bed Harry turns into him instinctively. He doesn’t say anything, just wraps his spaghetti limbs around Zayn until he’s got no choice but to toss an arm around him as well.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does Harry have a boyfriend?”
> 
> Zayn knows it’s not the right time to ask. Sophia and Liam were bloody snogging on the couch when Zayn just burst out with it. 
> 
> Sophia sits up a bit, clambers off Liam while Liam looks like he’s choking. “No, no of course not.”
> 
> “Are you sure?” Okay, so Zayn’s a bit drunk. It’s three o’clock on a Saturday and maybe he had a couple of beers with Louis over Skype, but it’s two am where he is, which makes it completely acceptable really. He was drawing while Louis rambled about all the attractive local girls. Zayn hadn’t realized he had been doodling roses and anchors and mermaids until Louis asked to see what he was drawing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> big big thanks to everyone that read the first part :)))

Zayn wakes up slowly.

His first thought, is that he’s definitely a bit hungover. His mouth tastes like cotton and his eyes are dry beneath his lids. He yawns into his pillow, hips flexing into the mattress and oh –

He could definitely go for another round with Harry. He’d probably still be open enough, would probably like the burn of it first thing in the morning.

So he rolls onto his side, ready to lean over and proposition Harry, when he feels the very empty, very cold side of the bed. He sits up, disoriented. Harry’s suit jacket’s gone from the floor, as are his boxers and jeans. His bag is no longer on Zayn’s desk chair.

With a heave, Zayn tears himself out of bed, stuffing his legs angrily into a pair of sweatpants and shoving his arms through a wrinkled shirt on the floor. He pisses, because he’s angry and his bladder is so full of alcohol that it’s the only way it will come out. Zayn refuses to puke while hungover; nothing’s worse than the taste of bile.

It seems to be crawling up his throat on its own though. Zayn’s so angry, so sick at the thought of Harry using him like that, he stomps down the stairs. Wali and Saf are watching cartoons on television, acknowledging his presence with matching smiles. He barely gives them one back before bursting into the kitchen.

“Morning,” Trisha smiles. She has a plate of waffles sitting on the table and only one plate. “Slept in pretty late, hey?”

She’s doing that thing with her face again. The smile that is so happy and genuine, the smile she uses when referencing Harry that it nearly splits his guts in half. He has the overwhelming urge to throw up.

“Did you and Harry have a good time?”

Zayn nods, guilt swirling deep in his belly. He had thought that they had a good time. Now, he’s not too sure. Where the fuck is he?

“He’s such a good boy, Zayn. I’m so proud of you, who you’ve become. I know it can be scary introducing someone to the family, but Harry fits in so well. Everyone just loves him.” Zayn can’t even muster a twist of his lips. Trisha looks so warm, so full of happiness that her eyes are getting glossy. He feels ill. “And I know I may have pressured you into finding someone, but Harry-”

“It’s fake,” Zayn says lowly. It’s not shouty, not a grand declaration. It’s quiet, a bit too forceful with the way Zayn practically snaps it. He had hoped it would come out during a more ideal setting; maybe in three or four years when he’s settled down with someone and his family can look back on it and laugh.

Confusion clouds Trisha’s face before she shakes her head. “I don’t understand you-”

“We’re not dating,” Zayn says squeezing his eyes shut. His lungs feel like they’re decompressing. “We’re not even friends. He just – he hangs around Liam and is always at ours. I don’t actually like him.” And when Trisha makes a pained noise in the back of her throat, Zayn forces an eye open with a bit of a sour laugh. “I can’t stand him, really. Try not to talk to him unless I have to. He was just convenient.”

When he focuses on his mum, she’s not even looking at him. She’s looking beyond his shoulder and Zayn knows. It’s so fucking cliché.

Zayn spins around and there’s Harry, holding his bag on his shoulder and Trisha’s sewing tote in the other hand. There’s a tiny tear in the corner of his rucksack. “I-”

“Harry,” Trisha says, brushing past Zayn to take the bags he’s holding. Harry gives her the sewing one, hiking his bag up with more force.

Zayn feels like his head is being ripped from his body. He feels dizzy, off-kilter. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

“I’m going to go I think. I-” Harry stares at his bag, then between Zayn and Trisha. He opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head, looking down at his pigeon toed feet. Zayn’s rooted in the spot, couldn’t reach out for Harry if he tried.

He wants to offer an apology, tell Harry that none of what he said is true but – everything aches.

“Sorry,” Harry mumbles quietly and turns for the front door.

Zayn stares after him, until the front door shuts quietly. Zayn had expected him to slam it. Angrily, or, or _something_. He flinches anyway.

“Sunshine-”

“Don’t,” Zayn bites. He knows he’s taking his anger out in the wrong place. He should be mad at himself for fucking up the lie they had constructed for his family. Zayn has a lot of explaining to do. He can’t bare it though, not when Safaa walks in with a wobbly chin and his mother starts clearing the table.

He doesn’t understand Harry’s anger. They agreed to this. They weren’t even friends for Christ’s sake. Nothing Zayn said was a lie. He had thought, after confessing his sham of a relationship to his mother, he’d feel less guilt. Instead, he feels as though his stomach has been lit on fire and tiny dwarves are hacking at it with axe-picks.

He slept with Harry once and it was mutual. That’s no reason for Harry to think there was something special between them. He’s well aware that Harry has slept with other people. The walls are thin and there’s this one hipster twat he always sees him with.

When he looks up, Trisha’s at the sink, scrubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“I’ll be back.” Zayn doesn’t look over his shoulder as he grabs his mum’s keys.

He’ll smoke a few blunts with Louis, drink some beers, and forget that Harry even existed.

-

“I’m sorry, you _what_?” Louis, if possible, looks even more devastated than Trisha had.

“We faked it. It was nothing,” Zayn reaches for the bong, but Louis rips it away. They’re squeezed close together sitting on the roof just outside Lou’s bedroom window. They’d had many nights like this, huddled together, getting high. Louis’ never disallowed him a hit.

“I don’t think you understand what you’ve done to the poor boy.”

“He’s fine,” Zayn mutters. Harry’s the one who left, not him.

“Fine? Fine!?” Zayn winces at the volume. “I saw the way he looked at you. I’m not an idiot and I didn’t think you were either.”

With that, Louis passes him the bong. Zayn takes a hit then passes it to Louis. They go back and forth until Zayn’s arms feel like jelly.

He’s got a day left with Louis until he has to head back to Manchester, back to life and back to living next to Harry. Liam’s called him twice in the past seven hours, no doubt hearing the awful things Zayn said about Harry. After the sixth sad emoji’d text message, Zayn had stopped reading them.

“So, how are you going to win Harry back?” They’re lying on Louis’ childhood bed. Louis’ head on Zayn’s chest as he spills microwaved popcorn bits on him. Zayn’s got an arm around his shoulders, cuddling like they used to when they were sixteen and naïve.

“I’m not.”

Louis pinches his nipple half-heartedly. “You’ve got to. I think he really likes you.”

Zayn shakes his head, stuffing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Harry was just a good actor. A really, really good actor.”

“I don’t believe you. His face was an open book.”

Zayn refuses to believe it. The more he thinks on the past week, the affectionate kisses, intimate pictures, soft touches – they were all initiated by Harry. Harry with his soft lips and messy hair, large hands and pretty dick. God, Zayn’s too high to be thinking about him.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Aw, does Zaynie have a crush on his boyfriend?” Zayn always hates when Louis’ loud and high. He likes when he’s chill about it, playing videogames and munching.

“I don’t have a crush,” Zayn hisses. “And he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Well not anymore. You cocked that up.”

“Lou,” Zayn sighs, scrubbing his forehead with a lethargic hand. He feels like he’s moving in Jell-o. Even his eyelashes feel like they weigh a tonne.

“Alright. Do you want to play Fifa then?”

-

Louis sings obnoxiously as he drives Zayn back to Manchester. He had insisted that he should, since it was the last time they’d see each other until Louis was back, whenever that may be. He said something about Singapore or Thailand, but Zayn hadn’t wanted to hear about how he’d be leaving him for another year.

Stepping into his flat, Zayn’s met with eerie silence. He had hugged Louis outside the front entrance, not trusting him to come up into their hall without wanting to talk to Harry.

“Li?” Zayn calls, wary of what he’ll be met with. “Liam, m’home.”

A door clicks shut, then Liam’s shuffling from the direction of his room. “Hey,” Zayn greets when he doesn’t say a word. Liam hums under his breath, passive-aggressively ignoring Zayn who’s following him into the kitchen. “Li, come on. This isn’t funny.” When Liam reaches for the kettle, filling it with water, Zayn shuts off the tap.

Great, so now Liam’s put Zayn in an even fouler mood.

“What’s your problem?” Zayn asks.

“My problem? My problem!” Liam throws his arms open, as if addressing a crowd instead of Zayn. “My problem is that you were a complete arse to Harry then wouldn’t even pick up the phone when I was trying to see if you were okay.”

Zayn flushes, the familiar creep of guilt climbing up his throat. “I thought you were going to yell at me.”

“Well I was,” Liam confesses. He finally looks at Zayn and his face softens. “But then you weren’t answering and I thought that maybe you figured yourself out.”

“Figured myself out?”

“Yeah. Y’know, about your feelings for Harry.”

Perplexed, Zayn follows Liam into the living room. “I don’t have feelings for Harry.”

“Sure, mate.”

“Don’t patronize me like that,” Zayn frowns. Instinctively, he looks towards the wall they share with Harry. “I don’t have feelings for Harry. He knew that. He just got all sensitive.”

Liam’s features go cold immediately. “You’re not an arsehole Zayn, don’t act like it.”

“I’m not acting like anything.”

“You are. I tried to warn him against it you know. I told him straight up that this wasn’t going to end well for him.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about Li.” This was Harry’s idea. Zayn had just gone along with it. Harry was the one that was always excited to touch and hold hands. He initiated it nine times out of ten.

Liam throws his arms up again, this time in despair. “Harry likes you! He proper fancies you and thought that bringing over a pie would start a conversation. But then your parents were over and it just escalated for him. He likes you a lot and he was trying to help you out.”

Harry, klutzy Harry, who always needs a hand to catch him when he trips, guide him away from random objects on the ground, take his drinks from him when he’s had too many, has an actual crush on Zayn. “I didn’t ask for his help,” Zayn says stonily.

“You’re hopeless. You’re my best mate Zayn, I love you, you know that. Harry’s my best mate too and being a tit to him isn’t alright with me.” Liam gives him a stern look, folding his arms across his chest.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” Zayn feels a bit like drowning.

Liam sighs again, long-suffering. He rubs his temples then breathes deeply. Zayn hates when Liam looks like a kicked puppy. He looks sadder than he had when he and Danielle had broken up in uni. Liam gives him a sad face, the one that always makes Zayn want to curl up with his ratty teddy bear. “You’re not a bad person Zayn.”

Zayn swallows. He wants to say he knows, except he feels like he’s going to cry if he does anything other than nod.

He lets Liam collect him into his arms and be held.

-

After that, Zayn comes to a few conclusions.

1) There’re a lot more dirty dishes and unwashed laundry sprawled across the flat. He hadn’t noticed how the bathroom hamper filled up or how easy it was to pile dishes into the sink until they’ve got no more clean forks in the drawer. When he tries to do a load of dishes in the dishwasher, he has no idea whether using dish soap is acceptable. Google says no, but college forums say that it’s perfectly fine. He consults Liam for advice who admits he hadn’t even known there was a difference. “How’d you do the dishes before, then?” Zayn asks, because he sure as hell can’t recall the last time he had actually washed his own dish. “That was Harry mate,” Liam shrugs, giving the dish soap a wary look before going back to his press-ups.

2) Cooking his own meals takes more time and effort than he’d originally thought. When he comes home from work on a Tuesday, starving for the lasagne that’s always tucked in beside the milk, he finds the spot vacant. It’s a ritual really. He comes home at half-six, drinks a bottle of beer after he’s changed into his sweats and then eats a quarter of a pan of lasagne. He warms it for two and a half minutes in his red bowl, eating it with a spoon instead of a fork. Then, he joins Liam for a round of Xbox while Harry sits in the chair silently. He hadn’t realized that the common denominator every Tuesday was Harry; Harry who must have brought over the heavenly lasagne and saved the last little bit for him. It frustrates him more than it should, causes him to slam the door shut and hear the condiments rattle in the door. He stalks his way back to his car, picking up McDonalds and eating his fries while he drives home aggressively.

3) Harry’s absence is much more pronounced than Zayn would have thought. He hadn’t realized how often Harry had come over until a month has passed and he hasn’t even ran into him in the corridor. He’s not there when Liam does his yoga in the morning; there are no tiny whines of discomfort or loud bouts of manic laughter when Liam tips over. Harry doesn’t bang on the door at half seven on Wednesdays, leaving Zayn late for work the first time it happens. He can’t hear Harry screaming at reruns of X Factor when Liam and Sophia watch them on Thursdays. Zayn walks out expecting to see Harry curled into the armchair more times than not these days and every time he catches himself doing a double take when he thinks he sees him in it, he gets more and more angry with himself.

Part of him wishes Harry would make the first move. He wishes Harry was in his apartment so Zayn had an excuse to see him.

Logically, Zayn knows he could go over to Harry’s, but Zayn’s a coward.

He ignores Harry’s door, staring at the ground in fear of running into Harry. He begs Liam to take out the garbage and when he leaves the house, he takes the stairs instead of the elevator for fear of running into Harry. The last thing he needs is the doors to open and Harry to come out or for Zayn to wait for the lift and have Harry spot him. Zayn doesn’t loiter in the hall when he hears music playing from behind Harry’s door and he sure as hell doesn’t stand outside it for nearly ten minutes on a lonely Thursday night.

Zayn’s been living in constant fear of running into Harry. So it makes sense that he would finally have to see Harry after he’s had the worst day of his life.

It had started when Zayn forgot his morning coffee. He likes his travel mug better than the chipped, stained, unwashed mugs that are kept in the cabinets in the kitchen at work. He hadn’t been the first one to brew the coffee, so it was weak and slightly stale. Then, he was assigned an illustration that he couldn’t draft to save his life. His lunch, which was leftover pizza, magically disappeared from the fridge so he had to spend £10 that he didn’t have on a kabob from down the road. After which, he proceeded to be sick in the toilet and couldn’t go home because there was a meeting about budgets and ratings and other shit Zayn had no opinion on.

And now, now the lift’s broken and he’s sweating through his button-up needing a cheese toastie and a nap and Harry fucking Style’s door is wide open.

Zayn can tell as soon as he gets to the top of the stairs because a man is standing half outside the doorway and looks to be laughing wildly.

He’s got a quiff flopping on his forehead and he’s wearing tight jeans and a tighter top. He looks old; older than Harry and most definitely older than Zayn. He’s never seen him before and he doesn’t like the look in his eye when he sees Zayn approaching.

“Hazza love, are you almost ready?”

Zayn very much does not pay attention when the man calls into the flat. And when Harry replies, Zayn digs his fingernails into the palm of his hand because he’s frustrated with his day. He does not give a single shit about Harry Styles. Nope. Not at all.

Except, then Harry’s stepping outside, just as Zayn’s got his keys out and is ready to stick them into the keyhole. Zayn can feel his presence more than he can actually see him out of the corner of his eye.

“Ready?” Harry asks and Zayn doesn’t glance up. He can’t get the fucking key in, God dammit. He won’t look, he won’t look, he won’t look. Then, “Oh.”

He fucking looks.

Zayn tries to say something, tries to say anything, but then Mr. Tall-and-Quiffy-and-Too-Old-For-Harry is dragging him away with a hand on his lower back.

Something fierce and jealous rears its ugly head into Zayn’s stomach and then he feels like a million rhinoceros are head-butting his gut as he watches them walk away.

He gets the door open and then he’s stumbling into the flat, kicking his trainers off and bounding around to find Liam.

“How was work?” Liam asks. He’s sprawled on the couch with a bowl of kettle corn in his lap.

“Shit,” Zayn steals the bowl, spilling some popcorn when he flops into the armchair. He doesn’t want to talk about Harry and Mr. Whoever, but the urge to rant about Zayn’s cracking heart is tempting. Though, he’s had enough of Liam’s sad puppy dog eyes and he doesn’t need another lecture about how he treated Harry. Clearly, he’s moved on and Zayn can too. “I need a new job. I hate it there.”

Zayn’s complained about this countless times, about the deadlines and the shit pay, the rejection of his original ideas and the finicky coffee machine. He doesn’t have many friends there. There is no one that he would expect a happy birthday message from and there’s no one that he would send one too either.

It’s only made worse by the shitty few weeks he’s been having since he returned from Bradford. And now, by seeing Harry looking happy and chipper and on the arm of some other man. Zayn feels bitter.

“Um, there’s actually something that I wanted to talk to you about.” Liam turns off the television. “Soph and I, we want to move in together. And I know we’ve been flatmates for years, since uni, and I love you, I really do. The lease is up in a couple of months and then I was thinking Soph and I could move in.”

It’s not what Zayn expected and it’s not as bad of news as Zayn had anticipated, but it still unsettles him. He’s a creature of habit.

“And you’re welcome to live with us. More than, we’re only getting a flat somewhere and it will probably only be a few blocks over. Closer to your work really, so-”

“Li,” Zayn laughs, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s alright.”

“Really?” Liam’s enthusiasm oozes from his smile. He doesn’t notice Zayn fidget with his ear piercing, just starts beaming like a kid in a sweet shop.

“Really. I can live by myself, or find another flatmate. I think a move would be good.”

Liam visibly relaxes, sending Zayn a grin so wide that he’s suddenly transported back to their uni days when Liam would finish an exam and slump onto his bed serenely. “That’s great, Zayn. I was so worried that with what’s going on with you and Harry, you’d want me to stay here.”

Zayn’s stomach twists, but he smiles past it. “Of course I want you to stay here. You’ll always be my best mate.”

“We’ll have a lad’s night every week. Chill out and you can complain about my smoothies and I’ll pretend that you’re eating enough vegetables.” Liam looks so earnest Zayn pretends like this doesn’t mean he’s losing his best mate.

-

Zayn’s picking out mushrooms, strategically finding the least filthy ones to stuff into his paper bag when something catches his eye.

It’s in the organic section, the expensive stand that Zayn doesn’t even wander over to. There’s a big sign in bright orange writing that reads _**Chilean Guava**_. Zayn drops the mushroom and starts laughing. He can’t believe it’s actually a thing. He had thought what Harry had said was just bumbling nonsense, something to make Zayn laugh.

Zayn reaches for his phone, ready to text Harry when he realizes. He realizes he doesn’t have Harry’s number. He realizes that he has no right to it. He realizes that what he said to his mother was true; he’s not dating Harry and they’re not even friends.

A lady comes up next to him. She’s elderly, petite with a perm. She mentions something about mushrooms and her granddaughter coming to visit. Zayn can’t muster up enough politeness to even look in her direction. He’s not even smiling. His heart feels like it’s trying to claw out of his body.

Zayn abandons the produce section, walking as quickly as he can to the frozen food aisle.

He finds the biggest tub of rainbow ice cream and plunks it into his basket.

-

“I like Harry!” Zayn blurts as soon as Louis’ FaceTime connection goes through.

He looks rumpled and tired, tiny bags under his eyes. His hair sticks up in ten different directions and it’s fairly dark. Zayn’s got no idea what time it is there, so it must be before his classes. Zayn’s a bit drunk and a lot upset.

“Jesus, I just woke up, mate. Are you drunk?”

“Yeah.” Zayn scrubs a hand down his face, his admission going unnoticed much to his dismay. He doesn’t know if he’s brave enough to say it a second time. It’s half six and Zayn had such a shit day at work he came home and had a few beers until he felt better. Than had another one while he waited for the frozen pizza to cook in the oven. It wasn’t until he ate the first piece that he realized he hadn’t eaten since lunch and he was well on his way to drunk. His life’s pathetic and now Lou’s going to take the piss. “Fuck.”

Louis surprises him though, shifting around until a light illuminates more of his face. He’s shirtless in bed, buried under his covers. He looks mildly more awake. “Take a breath Zayner. What made you realize that you like Harry?”

“I don’t know, I just-” Zayn leans against the back of the couch, tossing his sock-clad feet onto the coffee table. “The other day I ran into him and this tall guy was being all affectionate with him and I just-”

“Affectionate, how?”

“Like, putting his hand on his back and calling him ‘love’.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that’s affectionate.”

“It’s just, it’s been a month, he shouldn’t have moved on that quickly.”

Louis snorts on the other end, earning him a glare. “S’not like you were really dating.”

“I _know_. I just – I fucked up, I fucked it all up. Everything reminds me of him.”

“Oh Zayn.”

“Stop your ‘oh Zayn.’ I’m having a crisis.” He hasn’t felt this torn up about someone since that girl with the fiery pink hair in his Intro to Anthropology class in his first year.

“See if you can find out who this guy is, then talk to Harry.”

“I can’t Lou. I don’t even have his number.”

Louis rolls his eyes, energy returning to him the longer they chat. “What’s stopping you from going over there? Stop inspecting your fingernail, I know you’re avoiding the question.”

“I don’t want to get rejected, Louis.”

In any other circumstance, Zayn would expect a quick-witted response about how Zayn’s rejected Harry and that mustn’t have felt nice. It’s nice that Louis doesn’t say that, opting instead to give him a sad, sympathetic smile.

“At least you can admit you like him, that’s a start.”

-

“Does Harry have a boyfriend?”

Zayn knows it’s not the right time to ask. Sophia and Liam were bloody snogging on the couch when Zayn just burst out with it.

Sophia sits up a bit, clambers off Liam while Liam looks like he’s choking. “No, no of course not.”

“Are you sure?” Okay, so Zayn’s a bit drunk. It’s three o’clock on a Saturday and maybe he had a couple of beers with Louis over Skype, but it’s two am where he is, which makes it completely acceptable really. He was drawing while Louis rambled about all the attractive local girls. Zayn hadn’t realized he had been doodling roses and anchors and mermaids until Louis asked to see what he was drawing.

It seems to be a thing now, connecting with Louis via some aspect of video calling and drinking or smoking until one of them falls asleep. It’s not the best way to cope with Zayn’s newfound feelings, but it’s as much as he can do with how full of fear and desire he is.

“He hasn’t been over in a while and I saw some guy with him the other day.”

“I’m sure Zayn,” Liam offers. He looks sad, apologetic. “I think he’s still hurt you know. Over what happened in Bradford so I-”

“You don’t even know what happened,” Zayn snaps. He’s already forming a headache. Sophia picks up her phone from the table as Liam rubs his head. “Sorry, I, sorry. None of this is your shit to deal with.”

“I mean, if you apologized, I’m sure he’d want to hear it.” At Zayn’s glare, Liam hastens to add, “I mean talk. If you tried to talk to him.”

“I really think it would help,” Sophia adds. “You do like him, right? As a friend?”

“Yeah,” Zayn nods. “I think- I think I’ll go over now, apologize.”

“Zayn-”

“Thanks!”

Zayn darts out of the apartment, knocking on Harry’s door thrice. He’s never knocked on the doors before. They’re a bit hard.

The door swings open and it’s – it’s that damn hipster guy. He’s wearing tight jeans and nothing else. His chest is hairy, much hairier than Zayn could ever hope for.

“S’Harry home?” He must look a mess. He hadn’t styled his hair and it’s just flopping around the side of his face.

The stranger narrows his eyes, looks suspiciously like a lioness ready to defend her cubs. “Who’s asking?”

“Zayn?”

Zayn looks just past the man at the voice. It’s Harry, in nothing other than a towel wrapped around his waist, and with another look back at the man by the door, Zayn puts the pieces together.

“Oh,” Zayn knows he sounds defeated, hopelessly close to tears although he doesn’t necessarily feel like crying. It’s half three for Christ’s sake. “Oh, sorry. Hadn’t- yeah.”

He still stands there dumbly, as Harry walks closer towards him. It’s too much though, Harry being with this tall, hairy, most likely financially stable guy that Zayn could never dream of comparing to. This must be the kind of man Harry usually goes for, not some sham of a relationship to be coerced into.

So, before Zayn has a chance to be rejected for a second time, he darts over a meter and is back in his flat. He locks the door behind him, slumping down against it and waits for Liam to join him.

“What happened?”

“His boyfriend was over. All shirtless and hairy and Harry wasn’t even, fuck, he wasn’t even dressed.”

Liam wraps an arm around Zayn’s waist, pulling him into his side. It’s reminiscent of their last night of second year uni, when Zayn had gotten too drunk and Liam still believed he only had one kidney. Zayn had cried on his shoulder about how much he was going to miss him while Liam laughed a bit and soothed him.

This time, Liam doesn’t laugh.

“That’s Nick, that’s not his boyfriend.”

“His fuck buddy. Whatever, I don’t care.”

Zayn cares, of course Zayn bloody cares. It’s been over a month since Harry came into his life like a bloody boyfriend-tornado and then left him distraught and destroyed. Zayn hadn’t allowed himself to dwell too much on how he felt about Harry, but now thinking about him on the other side of the wall, with some douche who probably pays more than £3 for a bottle of wine, Zayn can accept that he likes Harry.

“He really liked you Zayn, before all this. It’s why he suggested it in the first place.”

“I didn’t know.” Zayn can hear Sophia watching Project Runway in the lounge. He feels miserable, sick to his stomach. “We slept together. I didn’t think, I didn’t think it meant anything to him. He wasn’t,” Zayn takes a deep breath. He’s not going to cry, he’s _not_. “He wasn’t there when I woke up, what was I supposed to think?”

Liam’s quiet for a long moment. “I’m not blaming you. It’s not entirely your fault. He should have told you how he felt before all of this.”

“Exactly,” Zayn snaps. He scrubs his hands over his face, suddenly exhausted. “I fucked up so bad. I think I really liked him.”

“You still can like him. No one says you can’t.”

“I can’t Li.” Because Zayn knows how this goes. Zayn knows that life is not a romantic comedy and the anti-hero protagonist doesn’t get the happy-ending dance sequence. He doesn’t get a grand kiss from the effortlessly charming romantic interest and he doesn’t get to dance around the kitchen or fall asleep with someone in his arms. He doesn’t get to brag to his mum about his brilliant boyfriend and he doesn’t get to lovingly tease him until he’s blushing and giving him a kiss.

So Zayn settles for shitty days at the office and long nights alone. He settles on time-fractured conversations with Louis and ignoring his family’s phone calls. He settles for lonely nights and a sketchbook full of tattoos that would look perfect against soft, pale skin.

-

Zayn wakes up in a cold sweat.

His hands feel clammy and he’s got a knot of dread in his chest. These dreams, or nightmares, are always the worst for Zayn. They haunt him upon waking, the remnants floating around in his head, but he can’t quite reach them.

He remembers when he was a child, he would dart across the hall and into his parent’s room. Careful not to wake his father, he would yank on his mother’s arm until she woke up to comfort him. She would hold him close to her chest, rocking him in her arms and singing under her breath until Zayn fell asleep. He can still hear her voice singing _You Are My Sunshine_ in the gentle tone she carried.

Zayn has always been what his mother called a soft-soul. Trisha hadn’t masked her affection for Zayn around his friends and he had openly declared himself a mother’s boy. It was easy to admit it when Louis was equally as dependent and warm-hearted towards his mum. Doniya had complained all through their childhood that Zayn was coddled, babied in a way she wasn’t. Zayn can admit that he was, that he would carry the groceries for his mum in order to persuade her to give him a later curfew, would help her cook dinner then ask if he could sleep over at Louis’.

He had loved coming home to his mum’s loving arms. Even when he was in secondary he would give his mum such long, tight hugs that she would bat him away to start his homework.

But Zayn no longer has that luxury. He can’t call his mum; seek solace in the middle of the night like the child he once was.

So he pulls himself out of bed, slipping into a pair of socks because the floors run cold at night. The flat’s silent as he navigates it in the dark, no windows allowing him to see in the corridor. When he gets his own place, he’ll have to invest in a nightlight until he can make it out on his own.

He has a cold cup of tap water and sits on the counter while he sips. It’s late, nearing three in the morning if the bright light on the microwave happens to be accurate. A couple spoonfuls of ice cream should calm him as well, his heart feels odd.

Then he hears it.

Through the thin wall, he can hear Harry belting out lyrics to Summer Nights. Although muffled, Zayn can hear the soundtrack, can hear Harry’s voice. He scoots back, mindful of the cupboard behind him as he listens. He knows it’s more than a bit creepy, but Harry’s voice is light, happy.

The dread unravels as Summer Nights turns into Greased Lightning. The background track picks up and Zayn’s surprised by how much he can hear. There’s the upbeat piano, the guitar riffs, Harry’s loud voice meshing with John Travolta’s, then there’s loud, rambunctious laughter that is clearly not Harry’s.

In an instant, Zayn feels nauseous.

He drops the plastic cup into the sink, disregarding it banging against a plate as he makes his way to his room. The vicious jealousy returns with fervour this time. So much so that Zayn lies in bed clutching his stomach.

Images loop through his mind and he can’t get them out.

Zayn pictures Nick – God, he even sneers the word in his head, he’s pathetic – touching Harry, kissing Harry, fucking Harry, and it’s awful. It’s the worst feeling Zayn’s ever experienced; to picture the person you love with someone else.

It’s the worst kind of heartache and only at 3am can Zayn admit, without hesitation, without caution, without regard, that he loves Harry, well and truly, through and through. It’s frightening to think that the week Zayn spent with Harry may be the one and only.

No one falls in love in a week, yet Zayn did it.

Or maybe, maybe he hadn’t.

Harry had infiltrated his life long before that week, had weaved bits of himself into Zayn’s life so subtly that he hadn’t even known he was falling for Harry until he slammed into the truth.

And now Zayn’s left with a headache and heartache and the consequences of his actions.

-

The first thing Zayn does when he gets the job offer, without having sent an application or being interviewed, is think of Harry.

It’s stupid. Zayn knows it is, but he does anyway.

He thinks of Harry and his boyfriend, of Zayn’s stupidly broken heart and then he looks into it.

He looks at property in London and pulls up Google Maps so he can measure the kilometers that would separate him from his family in Bradford, from Liam’s new apartment, and also from Harry.

The flats around the office area aren’t too expensive. Zayn’s got some savings that he can dip into and the job offer seems to pay a fair amount.

So he just goes for it. Zayn takes a risk, a massive one at that. He calls the woman who emailed him, has an impromptu interview and then is just, hired. It’s the most mind-blowing, confusing process he’s ever been a part of.

He runs out of the room, unbothered by his dirty shirt and rumpled boxers and dives straight onto Liam’s bed. “I got a job!” Zayn announces, bouncing on Liam’s leg in excitement.

Liam tackles him into a hug, arms wrapped around his neck. “That’s excellent! I’m so proud of you!” Liam kisses his cheek, his forehead. “Where is it?”

Zayn pauses, hand on the nape of Liam’s neck. “Um, London.”

Liam’s face morphs through six different emotions before settling on confusion. “You got – London? I meant, I meant which company, not – London.”

“Oh.” Liam’s face is crumpled, eyes not as happy. “It’s this new magazine. Someone in the office actually sent some of my sketches to them. I don’t even know them really. It’s like, I don’t know. The woman I talked to said I would have more freedom with my illustrations. I don’t really know.” He can’t stop talking about it, the words gushing out of him nonsensically.

“That’s great Zee.”

Zayn doesn’t doubt Liam for a second, but the air between them has thickened. “It’s not too far. Just over a two hour drive, I checked.”

“Farther for you to go home,” Liam reminds him.

“I really want the job Li.”

“Are you sure? Are you sure it’s not because of Harry?”

Zayn sighs, removing himself from underneath Liam. “I need to get out of here. I need a change, you know that. I’m not moving for another three weeks. You already have next month’s rent and then it’s done, innit? You’ll be moving too and I. Fuck, I really need out of this apartment Li.”

“Hey, it’s alright. I’ll always support you,” Liam guides Zayn in for a proper cuddle so they’re both against the headboard and their sides are pressed tightly together. “I’d like to go to London I reckon, come visit you.”

“Good, you should.”

“And I can take the missus, wine and dine her all fancy.”

Zayn grins, squeezing Liam’s arm. “You’ll have to get a hotel room for that.”

Liam laughs, loud and crinkly and just like that the weight in Zayn’s chest dislodges.

-

Zayn’s finally crammed the last pair of shoes into his packing bin.

His clothes are folded and waiting in garbage bags along with all of his photo frames and miscellaneous items. He doesn’t leave for another three days and the past few weeks have flown by now that he had something to focus on. Sorting out the final details with Liam had been strange. Zayn doesn’t like leaving, but he felt like this was the perfect time for him and Liam to go their separate ways.

Still, Liam working the last couple of days before Zayn leaves weighs heavy in his heart. Zayn’s had a while to pack and refresh and oddly enough, he missed having something to do during the day. Zayn took it upon himself to pack up the final little knick-knacks while Liam went out with Sophia for some drinks.

Now that it’s done he could have another beer with Liam, watch crappy late night telly and talk shit about the unprogressive story lines.

When the doorbell rings, it wakes him. Zayn’s groggy and confused. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep and now there’s infomercials playing. He shuts them off before going to the door.

He hadn’t thought Liam would stay out this late, though the lack of his trainers signify his absence. So he swings the door open without looking, intending on giving him shit for staying out so late.

It’s not Liam though. It’s Harry on the other side of the door. He looks upset and disheveled, eyes narrowed and lips so red he has to be drunk.

“Harry-”

“No,” Harry says, pushing his way past Zayn and into the flat. Zayn locks the door, walking right into Harry when he turns around. “I liked you!” Harry says it like an accusation. “Everything I did, I did for you. Pretending to be your boyfriend, cooking you dinner, going for runs with Liam so I could see you. _God_ , even wearing shorts when it’s always freezing in here. And you didn’t even notice, you’re too fucking thick to notice what’s right in front of you!”

Harry takes in a deep breath, licking his lips when he’s done his angry spiel. His shirt’s unbuttoned so the butterfly’s on display, jeans tight, and boots heeled. He looks so beautiful, so angelic standing in Zayn’s flat that it’s hard to process that he’s furious with Zayn.

“Harry-”

“No.” He shakes his head, wringing his fingers together before glaring at Zayn with renewed anger. “No, you don’t get to say my name all sad. You did this. You broke,” Harry hiccups, “You broke my heart.”

“You weren’t there when I woke up! Your bag was gone Harry, what was I to think?” Zayn’s tried to forget about that morning, the morning where everything went to shit and his mum had cried and his sisters had looked at him with big sad eyes and not said anything when he left.

“Your mum was going to fix a rip in my bag. If you had just,” Harry sniffles loudly, wiping the back of his hand sloppily underneath his nose. “I don’t even know why I’m here. I just thought, ‘hey Zayn wanted to fuck you last time you were drunk, might as well try again’.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Zayn defends.

“Then what was it like! You sure as hell have ne-”

Zayn licks into Harry’s mouth, kissing the taste of beer and whisky off his lips. Harry grabs onto Zayn’s waist, digging his fingers in and whimpering when Zayn bites his bottom lip.

“Yes, yes, yes,” Harry chants, stepping Zayn back until he’s crowded against the door. “God, Zayn.”

Zayn strokes Harry’s hair off his face, kissing underneath his chin, then his neck, sucking a love bite that he hopes lasts for days and days and days and that his –

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Zayn asks, pulling away abruptly.

Harry looks confused for half a heartbeat before shaking his head and diving in for another kiss. Zayn swerves away from it, grabbing Harry’s attention. “Who’s Nick?”

“No one. Please, Zayn.” Harry looks so beautiful, so desperate to be kissed that Zayn obliges. He kisses Harry so hard Harry stumbles back a few steps.

Harry unbuttons his shirt while Zayn works on his jeans. The couch is closer and Zayn shuffles them that way once Harry’s in nothing but his boxers. His chest is sweaty, hair a mess while Harry tries to keep kissing Zayn. His coordination is off and he’s making grabby hands for Zayn’s sweatpants.

“You sure?” Zayn asks, hands wrapping around Harry’s wrists.

“Want you so badly.”

Zayn nods, pouring his feelings into the kiss. This is the last time he’ll see Harry, the last time he’ll touch him like this, feel him like this.

Or, maybe not.

Harry’s whining his name, scratching Zayn’s skin in his eagerness to get Zayn undressed. Zayn’s not moving too far away, they could make it work. If Harry was willing to put in the effort, Zayn’s more than willing to make the drive every weekend.

Zayn’s thinking too far ahead.

He’s got Harry in his lap, grinding against him and mewling his name. “Let me get stuff,” Zayn murmurs, sucking Harry’s bottom lip until Harry’s panting too hard to respond.

Zayn stumbles his way to his bedroom, boxers tight around his cock as he tries to dig out his lube and condoms from his duffle bag. He had packed it away, certain he wouldn’t need it.

When he gets back, Harry’s lying on his back, stroking his cock and starkers.

“Way to start without me,” Zayn laughs, occupying Harry’s lips with his own before he can reply. “Shove over, you’re gonna ride me.”

“God, yeah.”

Zayn leans back, watching Harry clamber on top of him until he’s straddling his calves. He doesn’t look the least apologetic when he peels down Zayn’s boxers, kissing his hips, his thighs, his pubic bone. “Go on,” Zayn encourages, lifting his hips.

Harry takes him down with enthusiasm, hollowing his cheeks like he had previously done. Without the fog of intoxication, Zayn can feel Harry 100x clearer. He’s eager and sloppy in the best possible way, running his teeth against the slit of Zayn’s cock. He can’t help but buck his hips, fisting his fingers in Harry’s hair and pulling gently.

Harry hums around him, nodding eagerly before pulling off and licking the precome. “Good?” Harry hums. He’s got crease marks from where his brows had been furrowing. He looks adorably determined.

Zayn swallows down the fondness he feels. After this, he has no idea when the next time he’ll see Harry is. He pushes the thought away. He’s not going to catch any more feelings. This is a mutually agreed one off and Zayn will give hell to anyone who says it’s more – even if it is himself.

“Mmm,” Zayn nods. He strokes Harry’s hair when he comes up to kiss him. It’s bruising and just shy of too painful. Harry’s enthusiastic, kneeing his way towards Zayn and finding his fingers.

Harry leads Zayn to grab his arse, which – did it get bigger? Zayn wants to take his time, spread Harry out properly and explore his body like he deserves. He wants to memorize every inch of Harry, but he seems in too much of a rush to let Zayn take his time.

“C’mon, I already-” Harry wiggles a few fingers in front of his face.

“Yeah?”

Harry nods rapidly against Zayn’s neck. “This morning, thought of you. Always think of y- dammit.” Harry cries out when Zayn slips a finger in there, curious. It’s probably too dry. Still, Harry circles his hips at the feel.

“Let me,” Zayn pauses to grab the bottle of lube, settling against the armrest before gesturing Harry forward again. He gets two fingers in him easily enough, but at three Harry whines and twists away. “You’re good, you’re gorgeous,” Zayn soothes, stroking Harry’s thigh.

Harry straightens up just as Zayn goes to kiss him again and it, it shouldn’t make Zayn’s heart hurt the way it does. He pushes that aside as Harry reaches for the condom. His back is beautiful, strong and broad and speckled in freckles. If Harry wants a fuck, Zayn’s going to deliver him the best one of his life.

Harry was so open before, so willing to show Zayn every emotion and instead of being gentle when he sinks down on Zayn’s dick, he doesn’t start out slow.

Zayn has no idea where to look. He can’t keep his eyes in one spot as he watches Harry ride him. Harry’s thighs flex when he lifts himself up, abdominals clenching when he rolls his body down. His chest is heaving and his hands are finding purchase on the armrest by Zayn’s head. His biceps flex and collarbones glisten.

His coordination is shit when he’s sober, but the control he has over his body right now is phenomenal. Zayn’s in awe of the moves Harry has, had never thought he’d have it in him to roll and grind and circle his hips the way he does. 

His jaw is slack, mouth hanging open as he lets out little grunts. His eyes are heavy-lidded, and eyebrows slightly bowed. He looks so beautiful with his hair flopping about with sweat beading on his hair line.

All the things Harry does with his body, nothing’s better than his face.

“Harry,” Zayn groans. He flexes his fingers into Harry’s hips, feeling the motion through his fingertips.

Harry shushes him with a kiss, messy tongued and clashing teeth.

Zayn’s attuned to every movement Harry makes and when he runs a thumb over Harry’s left nipple, he hisses and tips forward. He nips at Zayn’s neck, kissing it repeatedly while his hair suffocates Zayn. It wouldn’t be a bad way to go out, with Harry writhing in his lap, digging his teeth into Zayn’s skin.

Zayn has the inexplicable desire to hear Harry. He wants to hear him lose it like he did in Bradford, when he was whining and desperate.

“Close?” Zayn asks, tempted to finally get a hand on Harry’s dick and tug him off.

Harry nods, looming over Zayn. He’s dropped to his forearms and there’s no way it’s comfortable against the hard frame of the chair. Harry’s face is so close that Zayn can see the little spots on his forehead and cheeks, the tiny little hairs on his chest and the longer ones in his armpit.

He fucks into Harry, snapping his hips into him when he sinks down and it punches a gasp from Harry’s lips. “Yeah,” Harry murmurs, licking his lips. “Yeah, come on.”

His voice is deep, ruined from sucking Zayn off. He still sounds like music to Zayn’s ears.

Zayn fucks into him faster, harder. He jostles Harry’s body around, holding his hips firmly until Harry’s steadied himself enough to fuck back onto him. When Zayn gets a hand around Harry’s dick, swiping his thumb over the head he finds it’s already wet.

He’s never been with someone who gets this wet just from being fucked and the thought of milking Harry of his orgasm becomes all encompassing.

Zayn’s got a one tracked mind as he sucks a bruise into Harry’s collarbone. His neck burns something fierce from holding it up for so long. He doesn’t give up as he tweaks Harry’s nipple, bumps his knuckles against his stomach on every twisted stroke of his wrist.

“Close,” Harry whines, body getting progressively limper. Zayn admires his persistence; he was never able to ride someone for this long. Truth be told, Zayn didn’t quite like being on top in that way, found that it was too much work. Except Harry, God, Harry’s spectacular.

Zayn’s not sure who initiates the kiss; maybe it’s Zayn, who’s eager to watch Harry fall apart or maybe it’s Harry who’s so close to coming, he’s shaking with it. Either way, both men are biting, licking, urging the other to get off so they can follow.

Harry comes first, clenching around Zayn in a way that has him squeezing his eyes shut, letting his own guttural moan break through the silence of the room. Zayn follows quickly after, feeling Harry squirm until he’s lifting himself off. Harry’s uncharacteristically quiet – well, for as much as Zayn’s known him. Harry had moaned and groaned and babbled Zayn’s name the last time they had sex and now, well now Harry’s not looking at him as he reaches for his briefs.

It’s been a strange, confusing night. But watching Harry step into his boxers sends dread rushing through Zayn’s veins. He had thought this would change something, had thought it had meant something to Harry. After all, he was the one who had sought Zayn out, came over when he wanted it.

Zayn’s not been someone’s booty call for years. The last time, it was exhilarating, now he just feels like garbage.

Harry’s not even looking at him, not even facing him as he pulls his pants up his thighs. He looks so tall and muscular; Zayn wants to sink his teeth into every inch of him. He’s not ready for this to be over.

“Harry,” Zayn starts. He reaches out to grab Harry’s elbow.

“I-” Harry’s brows are furrowed. His face softens then he glances down at Zayn’s body. Having Harry’s undivided attention is flattering yet unsettling. Where Harry had seemed determined and frantic, now he’s loose and dimpling beautifully. “Let me get some water first.”

When Harry comes back, Zayn’s got the blanket thrown over the back of the couch arranged over his legs. Harry points a straw towards his mouth which Zayn thanks him for. The water feels cool, Harry’s eyes on him feeling even better.

As Harry sneaks his way under Zayn’s arm, tangling their feet together under the blanket, Zayn belatedly thinks that maybe they’ll get over this. It wouldn’t be too uncomfortable to talk about their issues and then Zayn could cook them breakfast and hopefully have a quick romp in his bed.

-

“Zayn? Zayn, wake up.”

Zayn groans, shoving his face into the cushion. He’s flat on his stomach, drooling onto the couch seat.

Which – that shouldn’t happen if Harry –

“Harry?”

“No, it’s Liam. Why’re you on the couch mate?”

“I-” Zayn swallows past his dry mouth, cracking an eye open. “Where’s Harry?”

“Harry? London, I reckon.”

Zayn sits up, feeling woozy and tired. Liam’s wearing a pair of low-hung sweats and an Adidas hoodie. “London?”

Liam sits on the coffee table. The glass of water Harry had brought is gone and for a fraction of a second, Zayn wonders if Harry ever came over or if the previous night was just a figment of his imagination.

“He moved a couple days ago, but had his official going away pub night yesterday. That’s why Nick’s been over. He’s taking care of the place until it sells. Are you alright?”

“I feel sick,” Zayn groans, slumping.

“Sorry. I slept over at Soph’s because we wanted to… you know and I figured you might be awake.”

“When did Harry leave the pub?”

“Around two? He wanted to sleep in the apartment for one last time, except he texted me about an hour ago saying he’s in London.”

Zayn reaches for his phone. The battery reads less than 10% and its well past eleven. He must have left hours ago. Had he even slept or just waited for Zayn to fall asleep before leaving?

“What the fuck.” Zayn growls, feeling anger and bitterness rise up like bile. He feels sick to his stomach, heart aching so hard he has to take a deep steadying breath. He was nothing more than a fuck to Harry, one last hurrah before he moved away. “How fucking dare he.”

“Zayn, it’s not his fault he didn’t want to say goodbye.”

“He fucking,” Zayn stands up, hands shaking. “He came over last night. He started yelling at me about breaking his heart and shit.”

“What’d you do?” Liam’s face shifts when it dawns on him. “Tell me you didn’t. Zayn. Zayn, tell me.”

“He wanted it!”

Liam shakes his head, taking a deep breath. “You need to sort out your shit.”

“It doesn’t even matter. London’s huge, it’s not like I’m ever going to see him.”

“Zayn-”

Zayn gets off the couch, pacing to the kitchen. He’s hungry and irritable and nothing good will come of arguing with Liam before he leaves. “I don’t want to hear it.”

-

Zayn kicks his shoes off, scooping Stark into his arms and scratching the cat’s head. Stark struggles, but eventually settles in his arm and nuzzles his head against Zayn’s scruff. After three weeks of living in his small flat, Zayn had realized how lonely he was. He adopted the small Birman when he was just a few weeks old and they’d become the best of pals.

It’s much smaller than the space he shared with Liam. It’s his though and it’s comfortable and close to the office.

Stark wiggles in Zayn’s arm. He scampers away when Zayn lets him go and waits obediently by his food bowl. He’s a loyal companion and similar to Zayn, he likes eating and sleeping.

Zayn opens his nearly empty fridge, pulling out the can of wet cat food and scooping some into Stark’s bowl. He heats up leftovers; chicken and boiled potatoes, then calls his mum to fill the loneliness a cat is unable to provide.

“I want to make sure you’re eating well sunshine. I worry about you.” Trisha says for the umpteenth time.

“I am, mum.”

“And your job’s good? Are you taking care of Stark?”

Zayn taps his foot impatiently. He wishes he had a beer or a cigarette.

He has no way of telling his mum that his job isn’t what he thought it was cracked up to be. He doesn’t know how to tell his mum that the flat has creaky floors and the heating is hit or miss. He doesn’t know how to tell his mum that he’s been illustrating for three months with zero success or recognition from his superiors. He doesn’t know how to break the news that he has no idea what his job even _is_ at the moment.

“Of course, mum.”

Trisha sighs. A silence drags between them until Zayn contemplates different ways that he can hang up the phone. “Have you talked to Harry?”

“No.” Zayn’s stomach twists. He should have hung up. “I moved and so did he.”

“I know sunshine. I was just hoping…”

“I don’t want to talk about it. That was months ago.”

Zayn can hear Safaa calling for their mum. “One second, Saf,” she says impatiently. To Zayn, she says softer, “Take care of yourself, alright Zayn? We’ll come and visit as soon as we can.”

Zayn says his goodbyes, feeling exhaustion plague his bones. He wants to unwind by watching crap telly except that plans thwarted by his lack of television and Netflix.

He searches for Stark and when he finds him curled up by the heater, lifts him up again. They cuddle on the couch while Zayn listens to some music. He’s got to get a television at some point, but with the water and the heating bill, it’s going to be a while before he can afford it..

Stark rubs his belly against Zayn’s shaven head on his way to the bedroom. Zayn follows suit burying himself under three blankets. He lets Stark curl up by his feet and then spends half an hour texting Liam about work and Sophia and avoiding questions about his life.

-

One of the nicest things, Zayn’s found about being an illustrator for a brand new magazine, is having a receptionist on his floor. She’s gorgeous; a fit twenty-something-year-old woman named Farah who smiles and waves when he comes in and always wanders by his desk to talk to him.

Farah wears tight pencil skirts and tight blouses. On occasion she’ll undo an extra button or slow down her walk when she passes Zayn. He definitely notices each time and it’s innocent. They’re not doing anything inappropriate and it’s nothing but harmless flirting when Zayn brings her a coffee from the café down the street or a chocolate croissant with a heart scribbled on the bag.

“Morning, Zee!” Farah wiggles her fingers at him. Her eyelashes flutter, thick and black against her cheekbones. She’s got blood red lipstick contrasting against her beautifully dark skin and for the second time this week, Zayn places a caramel macchiato on her desk.

“You alright?” He asks, glancing at the near empty office.

“Good, yeah.” She pulls the lid off, blowing on the foam. Zayn hadn’t meant to track the movement. “So you’ve been here three months and you haven’t come to a pub night with me yet.”

Zayn’s cheeks heat. “I didn’t know I was invited.”

Farah rolls her big brown eyes. Her eyelids are painted a light blue. “We go every Tuesday, Zayn.”

It’s true. Zayn knows that some of the younger employees tend to go out and get way too drunk on work nights. Initially, he had wanted to stay at home and wallow in loneliness.

“I guess I could clear my schedule, go next time.”

“Or,” Farah fiddles with the lid, avoiding eye contact now. “We could go tonight?”

“Tonight?” Zayn can’t hide the surprise in his voice.

Farah nods, dipping her finger into the foam of her drink.

“I- to be honest Farah, I’m not sure if I’m up for going out tonight.” He knows it’s a cop out, but it’s more believable than saying he’s got to buy groceries and feed Stark.

Farah nods, cheeks blushing and Zayn feels miserable. He’s not used to rejecting people, more used to getting his heart broken and feeling the ache of it for the rest of eternity. “But next Tuesday sounds good.”

“Alright,” Farah nods.

“Okay.” Zayn stumbles his way to his cubicle. He feels a bit sick when he drinks from his lukewarm coffee. He didn’t add enough sugar, the bitterness sticks to his tongue.

The morning drones on uneventfully. He doodles and checks his emails. Louis messages him just before lunch and they chat on the phone while Zayn slurps tasteless chilli from the deli. He walks back to the office, the stuffy air a stark contrast from the wind outside.

He doodles a cyclops cowboy, trying to get the shape of the hat right. He’s been at it for half an hour with no real success.

“Zayn,” Farah asks, cutting into his concentration. “Boss wants to see you upstairs.” She cracks a grin, calming his nerves some.

Zayn has not gone to his boss’ offices himself. Normally, he comes downstairs and calls a meeting in one of the conference rooms. Zayn’s a tad lost in the elevator, unsure if he’s on the ninth or tenth floor. There’s no labels, no indication of which other companies are in the building besides his own.

The lift’s door open and Zayn loiters long enough for the receptionist to titter and tell him where to go. He takes his time walking. The office is set up much the same as the one downstairs; long corridors with offices lining one side and cubicles on the other. He takes a left, figuring that’s the right way to go and –

And Zayn hears it.

He knows that laugh. There’s no way in this lifetime that Zayn could forget what Harry sounds like when he’s laughing so hard he’s got to cover his mouth. Zayn chances a glance to where the sound’s coming from.

Harry’s right there, in one of the offices bent in half from laughing. Zayn can’t make out much of him, but he does see the bun, fluffier and fuller on his head. He sees the floral button up, something that Harry would very much own.

The man sitting behind the desk looks smug, arms crossed over his chest and Zayn’s mind begins reeling. What could he have possibly said to make Harry laugh that hard?

With a panicking heart, he quickly turns in the direction of his boss’ office.

“Zayn Malik. Hi,” Ben cracks a smile. He’s in no way as intimidating as Zayn had originally thought.

“Mr. Winston,” Zayn takes a seat, running his clammy hands down his jeans. “What can I do for you?”

“Well, you’ve probably noticed that you’ve not had a particular job in the office.”

Zayn pinches his lips together against the sarcastic comment he wants to make. Ben probably wouldn’t appreciate it, but Harry would. Harry, who, for the first time in months is only a couple metres away; who he can talk to and touch and kiss. He won’t do any of those things, can’t do any of them because his heart aches and Harry doesn’t want to see him.

Ben’s laugh brings him back. “We brought you in to illustrate and we haven’t had much to do while we get the magazine going. I brought you in to say that we’ve found something for you. We have a lot of articles being written and they’re bland, boring, and too plain on paper. So what we want to do is get you to draw illustrations for them, completely your own.”

Zayn hums, only half-listening. “Okay,” Zayn nods, glancing towards the door.

“Okay,” Ben chuckles. “That’s the plan, you can have some time to think about it. Now that we’ve found a proper position for you, you’ll get a pay raise and hopefully an actual office.”

“That’d be,” Zayn’s interrupted by the loud beep of Ben’s phone. “Cool.”

Ben raises a single finger, pressing a button.

“Harry’s leaving for his two o’clock. You need to email him directions.”

Zayn perks up, analyzing Ben’s face in anticipation for what he’s going to say. He doesn’t say much of anything, just hums before hanging up.

“Sorry, that guy’s always up to something. Where were we?”

Zayn quirks an eyebrow. “A raise and an office?”

“‘Course. I’ll email you some assignments after lunch.”

Zayn sneaks out of the office, wary of spotting Harry. He keeps his head down, steadfastly avoiding making eye contact with anyone. Even though he’s shaved his head, he’s still not taking any chances. He grabs his cigarettes from his desk drawer, sneaking outside and leaning against the wall for a break.

His fingers feel frozen as he scrolls to Liam’s contact name. He curls in on himself as it rings. The cold November air is unforgiving to the tips of his ears. He should have brought a jacket.

“Zayn?”

Zayn takes a long drag, watching the smoke blow out while Liam repeats his name with further confusion. “Yeah. Hey mate.”

“Is everything alright?”

“No. Not actually.” Zayn sucks on the cigarette greedily. “I saw Harry.”

“Harry?”

“Here, in London. In the office actually.” The smoke puffs out as Zayn speaks hastily.

“In – oh.” Liam sounds like a kid who’s been caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Zayn can picture Liam with his big brown eyes guiltily pleading. He can imagine the downturn of Liam’s lips.

“Oh? Oh, like, you knew?” At Liam’s silence Zayn stomps on his smoke. “Liam, what the fuck?”

“I didn’t- Zayn, I didn’t know it was.” There’s shuffling then a door shutting. “I knew he was photographing for a magazine, but he never told me! I didn’t know it was the same as yours.”

“Liam. Liam, what do I do?”

“Did he see you?”

“Probably not. I don’t think so.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“Is it?” Zayn clamps his eyes shut, leaning his head against the wall. People are going to wonder where he’s gone.

“I don’t know. You said. You said that receptionist was nice, what’s her name?”

“Farah-”

“Right. Maybe you should ask her on a date or something.”

“But Liam – actually, you know what? Fuck it, I think I will.”

“Yeah?” Liam says less comfortably than before.

Zayn pushes through Liam’s seemingly new-found hesitation. “I don’t have to see Harry if I don’t want to. I’ve avoided him for three months I can manage three more.”

“Oh. I mean – good for you Zayn.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think I’m going to go back to work.” Zayn hangs up without waiting for a response.

When the lift doors open he goes straight to Farah to confirm a pub date for tomorrow night.

-

“Stop that,” Zayn tells Stark firmly. “Stop. Stop looking at me like that. Stark.”

Stark’s judging him. There’s something about his furry face that has Zayn positive that Stark knows what’s going on in his head.

Zayn prides himself as someone who doesn’t talk to his cat. It’s only happened three or four times to be honest. Only in times of crisis.

Like now.

“It doesn’t. It doesn’t mean anything. And Harry doesn’t even like me. He left twice and he-” Stark scampers off abruptly. “Dammit, Stark!”

Zayn shovels a forkful of microwave lasagne into his mouth.

The longer he dwells on it, in his lonesome quiet flat, the longer Zayn has to contemplate his actions.

Now that Harry’s been reintroduced into his life, whether knowingly or unknowingly on his part, Zayn feels even worse than before.

“Stark, come back! I need to talk to you!” Zayn finds Stark on his bed. He grabs the cat, holding firmly so he can’t get away, then settles him in his lap. “Okay, so. I can find him and talk to him about this – embarrassing myself in the process – or I can continue to ignore his existence.”

Stark nudges his knee.

“Yeah, probably not a good idea. S’not fair for either of us, right? I’d be on edge everyday and he deserves to know that I work there.” Stark purrs.

Zayn really is good at this whole sorting himself out. Liam would be proud.

“Okay. Alright. I’ll find him tomorrow, say hi and just. Nothing’s going to happen because I have a date with Farah.”

Zayn sets his half-eaten dinner by his feet, giving Stark ample opportunity to run away again.

“Fuck. I have a date with Farah.”

-

Zayn realizes, once he’s already locked his apartment, that the black sweater he’s in is slightly see-through and his jeans have rips in the knee. There’s not a dress code at the office, Ben wanting the staff to be young and hip and free to express themselves through dress. He stops worrying about it though when he sees a flamingo shirted person waiting by the lift. They’ve paired it with tight black jeans so it’s not like it’s a complete fashion disaster and the bun is –

“Shit.”

Harry twists, eyes lighting up just as the lift dings. Zayn’s close enough that he sees Harry give him a once over.

“Zayn!” Harry doesn’t even step into the lift. He gives Zayn a big hug, one that makes his hollow chest ache. “Hiiii.” He clears his throat. “Hi, I didn’t know you worked here. Do you work here?”

“I, yeah. Eighth floor.”

Harry presses the button as they step into the lift, loitering on the ninth. He does press it, then holds his hands behind his back and gives Zayn a blinding smile. “How are you? You look well.” His eyes linger on Zayn’s lack of hair, then to his nose piercing.

“Thanks.” Zayn can’t hold back his blush. “I’m good. Adjusting.”

Harry’s eyes are bright. He looks healthy, well rested. He looks nothing at all like the sad, desperate, and drunk man who had crashed through Zayn’s door and started shouting about broken hearts. Zayn would still like an explanation, but this doesn’t seem like the right time for an interrogation.

Zayn watches the lift announce they’re on the second floor.

“Yeah. I can’t believe we work at the same place. It’s like fate.”

And just the way he says it: low and secretive, with a small, honest grin meant only for him, Zayn remembers the night of Doniya’s wedding. He remembers Harry on the dancefloor; smiling and swaying and talking about fate.

It hits Zayn that Harry wasn’t referring to the newlyweds. He remembers Harry beaming at him as he asked Zayn about fate, smelling like sweat and booze and Zayn had dismissed it as another one of Harry’s random questions. Zayn wants to say that now, more than ever, he believes in fate too.

So he nods and sucks in a breath fluttering with Harry’s cologne. Harry fiddles with the rings on his finger. In the week they had spent together, Zayn had picked up on Harry’s nervous habits. The fiddling was one that stood out the most. Zayn resists the urge to distract his hands by holding them.

“You always were a big believer in fate.”

“Well, of course,” Harry laughs. “And aliens too.”

“So-”

On the sixth floor, they’re stopped.

Dread washes over Zayn at the prospect of someone intruding on their conversation. It’s the first time he’s seen Harry, been in his orbit, in months and fuck if he’s going to let someone reduce them to silence.

It’s not just someone though, it’s Farah. Farah who hugs Zayn quite tightly and completely ignores Harry’s presence. “Fancy running into you mister.”

“Yeah,” Zayn responds helplessly.

“You ready for tonight? I was thinking we could go to a restaurant instead of a pub, y’know?”

Zayn glances at Harry, taking in the way he’s staring at his shoes.

Zayn refuses to believe it’s anything other than politely giving them privacy.

He doesn’t want that though. He wants to continue his conversation with Harry, find out how he’s doing and where he’s living. Then again, it’s none of his business.

Farah grabs him by the hand when their floor arrives.

“I’ll um, see you around,” Zayn tells him a bit dumbly.

“Yeah. S’good seeing you Zayn.” Harry waves at him as the doors shut.

If this was a rom-com, which Zayn steadfastly believes it’s not; he would take the stairs two at a time to meet Harry on the other end of the lift. He would declare his undying love for him and explain that Farah is a co-worker and could never replace the astronomical hole that Harry left in Zayn’s heart.

As it is, he abandons Farah to check his emails and get a head start on his brand new assignments.

They’re not so bad: a speech bubble here and a gurgling stomach there. He has to draw a pregnant stomach with a fetus inside, so he pushes that one for tomorrow.

He can’t stop doodling on his notepads though. He draws a sun inside a crescent moon, a Yin Yang symbol, and a Celtic knot inside of a heart. He spends a ridiculous amount of time on that one.

At lunch, his fingers hover over the ninth floor button only to inevitably click the one for the lobby. He’s not brave and he’s not involved with Harry no matter how much his heart tries to convince his head, Zayn refuses to give in.

He eats a bagel that has too much tomato and not enough lettuce while panic messaging Louis about what happened in the lift. Predictably, Louis’ drunk off his arse. He offers no support except a _**hahhah suk his dck 8===~~**_.

Zayn orders a green tea, slipping a sleeve over the thin paper cup. He carries it all the way to the office, not taking a single sip.

On the ninth floor, the receptionist from the day before greets him much the same, with instructions of how to get to Ben’s office.

“I was actually wondering if Harry was in. Styles.”

“Oh, he’s actually out at the moment.” She has the decency to at least sound sympathetic even though she started messaging on her phone as soon as she realized he wasn’t here to see Ben.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Nope.”

Zayn turns on his heels, stalking his way to Farah’s desk.

“I can’t go to dinner.”

“Wh-”

“Sorry. I – I ran into my ex and I - I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Zayn doesn’t miss the way her cheeks heat. She doesn’t make eye contact with him and Zayn feels like an even larger dick than he had yesterday. “That’s alright then. They’re very lucky, whoever they are.”

“Thanks. And, I’d still want to go to pub nights, like. It’s not you or anything.”

“Okay. Yeah, that’d be cool. Maybe you could invite her?”

Zayn doesn’t correct her, yet nods regardless. “Great.”

-

Despite his best efforts, Zayn’s unable to keep his thoughts away from Harry. He’s plagued with thoughts of Harry’s hair, eyes, lips, and abnormally large nose. It brings him to wait and wait and wait until the last possible second before he has to take the lift to the office and begin his day.

He sucks on a cigarette as he waits, taking his time to smoke and feign loitering.

Zayn’s participated in the ritual for three days now – ever since the start of the week when he vowed to talk to Harry and sort it out. It had taken a few drinks and a couple of packed bowls and eventually Zayn decided to actually do something about it.

That and Stark was giving him pitying glances, Zayn was sure of it.

Checking his watch, Zayn calls it quits. He’ll try again tomorrow, maybe show up a bit earlier than usual to see if he can catch him.

He’s bringing out his phone to text Liam about the failed run-in, when a cough breaks him out of it.

“Hi.” And just like that, there’s Harry. He’s wearing a half-buttoned leopard print shirt. He looks ridiculous and out of place and so incredibly _Harry_ that Zayn’s helpless and can’t do anything but smile in response. “Was wondering when you were coming in.”

Zayn feels himself blush to the tips of his ears. “Was smoking.”

“Yeah.” Neither of them makes a move towards the lift. Instead, they stare at each other in the lobby; surrounded by potted plants and cheap Monet replicas. “I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner sometime. To catch up,” Harry hastily adds.

“‘Course. Yes.”

Harry grins, digging into his pocket for his cell phone. Zayn watches Harry’s face as he types on his phone. His cheeks are pink and his lower lip between his teeth. His breathing is laboured and Zayn, for a fleeting moment, thinks of kissing him.

“Zayn.”

Zayn blinks a couple of times, coming to.

“Your number, please.”

He hands a shiny black iPhone to Zayn, who takes it with sweating fingertips. He types in his number, messing up the last three digits twice before he finally gets it right. He fills his name in, putting a standard smiling face next to his first name.

It feels monumental, the way Harry grins when he slides it into his pocket. “So I’ll text you, I guess.”

“Guess so,” Zayn teases just to see the way Harry’s cheeks redden.

For an awkward moment, they don’t say anything.

Harry stares at Zayn as Zayn stares back. The fluttering in his stomach is completely uncalled for. Stark would be so disappointed if he knew how excited Zayn was getting over this. It’s dinner. A possibly platonic dinner with no implications of spending time together after it. For all Zayn knows, Harry’s seeing Nick or someone else.

“I guess I should go to work then,” Harry says.

“Yeah.”

They turn in the same direction, laughing to each other when they realize they’re both headed for the lift.

Zayn punches the floor numbers this time, feeling lighter than before. The ride isn’t uncomfortable, but they don’t say anything to each other during the journey. When Zayn’s floor announces their arrival, Harry gives him a cordial head nod, a knowing smile.

-

“Stark, you can’t – Stark – no!”

And just like that, Zayn’s carefully planned outfit is ruined.

He has no idea why today of all days Stark has decided to act up, and he’s effectively shed a mountain of fur onto Zayn’s favourite black shirt.

Stark is belly-up, staring at him upside down. He looks like he’s smirking. Then again Zayn could just be imagining.

“I can’t – fuck!” Zayn sits down on the bed, head in his hands.

Stark offers zero support, as if he doesn’t want Zayn to meet Harry.

Granted, Zayn’s ranted and cried and screamed to Stark about all the stupid things that make up the infuriating Harry Styles. It’s not his fault though. He hadn’t known that his cat was going to be as loyal and unforgiving as Stark is.

The clock’s ticking and Zayn checks his phone just in case Harry’s texted him to cancel. It’s been a single day since they exchanged numbers – only a week since Harry was reintroduced into his life – and Zayn’s already sure he’s going to muck it up and have to move again.

He hears Liam’s voice in his head though, to remain positive and hope for the best, so Zayn crouches down, risks getting scratched and clawed by Stark’s nails and cuddles him into his chest. Stark purrs; finally placated after a long afternoon of meowing and throwing diva fits.

“Atta boy, Stark. Now off,” Zayn shoos him away, opting for privacy as he changes into his second choice outfit.

-

“You look great.” Harry smiles. He stands up from his seat to hug Zayn.

The restaurant is moderately filled, but Zayn doesn’t hesitate to hug Harry tightly.

“Thanks, I-” Zayn backtracks, taking in Harry’s floral shirt and tight, _tight_ jeans. His hair is fluffy and soft-looking, begging to be touched. He’s wearing gold boots. “I like your shoes.”

“Yeah?” Harry clicks his toes together before taking his seat again. “So how’s London?”

“S’good. I haven’t really been out much.”

“No?” Harry looks surprised.

“Nope.” Zayn’s saved by the arrival of their server.

“I’m Athena. I’ll be your server tonight.” She doesn’t waste time as she takes their drink orders, relaying the specials. Harry orders a Vanilla Cosmo whereas Zayn just orders whatever’s on tap. When Athena leaves, they’re left in silence.

Harry occupies himself with unrolling his napkin-wrapped cutlery. He organizes the utensils and splays the napkin on his lap. After he’s done, he still doesn’t say anything.

“Have you been out much?”

“A bit. I brought my bike so I know the area fairly well.”

“That’s good.”

Athena drops their drinks off, staring between them before walking away again. Their menus are still closed on the table for Christ’s sake. Zayn takes it upon himself to open it up first.

Harry mirrors his actions.

Zayn hadn’t eaten before he came, too nervous to see Harry to stomach anything. He’s hungry now though, could go for the broiled lamb.

“Have you been here before?” Zayn asks, scanning the other dishes. He doubts the chicken’s halal, or any meat for that matter.

Harry shakes his head. “Jeff recommended it. He works on my floor.”

Zayn hums, setting down his menu.

Athena seemingly pops out of nowhere. “Are you ready to order?”

Harry waits for Zayn to nod, then nods himself. “Can I get the halibut and chips? Except with a kale salad instead of chips?”

Zayn rolls his eyes at Harry’s modification. Harry, with his eyes on their server, kicks him in the shin.

“I’ll take the broiled lamb.”

“Fancy,” Harry comments once Athena is out of sight.

Zayn huffs. “Kale salad, who gets _kale_ instead of chips?”

Harry kicks him under the table again, but this time he wraps his foot around Zayn’s ankle. “Was that supposed to be smooth?” Zayn teases. Nonetheless, he squeezes Harry’s ankle between his own.

“Maybe.” Harry drinks more of his Cosmo, Zayn mimicking with a sip of his own.

It’s not the best beer he’s had.

“I suppose we should talk about us.”

Zayn goes hot under his collar. Harry’s removed their interlocked ankles. “I guess.”

“I know you’re seeing someone, but I have some questions about us that I need answered.” Harry says maturely. It sounds rehearsed.

At Zayn’s inquisitive eyebrow raise, a blush spatters Harry’s cheeks. He sits up straight though, mimicking confidence.

“Who says I’m dating someone?”

Harry flounders. “You and – with that girl from work.”

“Farah?” Zayn clarifies. “She’s just my co-worker.”

Harry hums, switching the placement of his knife and spoon.

Zayn rolls his eyes, anger replacing anxiety.

“Harry, come on. If you want to talk, we have to talk.”

“Okay.” But Harry still won’t look at him.

Zayn sucks in a breath, repeating Liam’s ‘ _relax and listen, wait then talk_ ’ over and over and over. Still, Harry doesn’t say anything. It’s so contrary to the talkative, excitable Harry, Zayn worries that this was all for naught. So he takes Louis’ advice instead ‘ _fucking tell him how you fucking feel for fuck’s sake_ ’.

“I was jealous when I saw you with Nick.” Harry’s head raises half an inch. Zayn bites the bullet and continues. “I didn’t mean what I said to my mum in Bradford. I thought I did, but I realized too late that I was an ass and we were friends.”

“Friends,” Harry repeats. He sounds mildly horrified. “I was like, in love with you. Proper in love with you and you thought we were _friends_.”

“Harry-”

Harry looks around. “I actually can’t do this.” He places his napkin on the table, looking anywhere but at Zayn. Zayn feels the familiar terror take over him. “I thought I could, but I-”

“Harry. Harry, sit down. God, I – that didn’t come out right.”

Harry stares at him, half-standing and eyes wide. He looks like a frightened deer.

“I like you. Like, more than a friend,” Zayn says.

The flush returns to Harry’s cheeks, a piece of hair falling in front of his face. He tucks it behind his ear, sitting quickly. He looks guilty and as Zayn’s about to tell him that it’s alright, he hears Athena.

“Skipping out?” She teases. Harry shares a petrified look with Zayn.

“No, I-”

“I’m joking, don’t worry.” She sets down Zayn’s lamb, complete with rice and buttery looking carrots. “Sub-salad for you.” She places Harry’s dishes in front of him then leaves with a parting, “Enjoy.”

Zayn waits for Harry to say something and when it’s clear he’s more interested in his halibut than Zayn’s declaration, he scoops up some rice.

The food’s good, but tainted by Harry’s silence. He wants to know what he has to say, but doesn’t want to pressure him. They need healthy communication even if they’re not going to be anything other than friends.

After a savoury nibble from his lamb, Zayn bites the bullet.

“I was thinking that maybe we could talk about, um. About the night before you left. When you came over and we…”

“Had sex?” Harry supplies while stopping a forkful on kale on its pathway to his mouth.

“Mhmm. What were you saying when you were yelling at me?”

Harry ducks his head. With every passing second he looks more and more bashful. He cuts his halibut with his fork with no move to consume it.

“I just. Everyone knew how much I liked you.” Harry levels Zayn with a serious look. “Especially Liam. I sort of always talked about you and how fit you were and I swear you didn’t even know I existed.”

Zayn _had_ , but he doesn’t want to admit that it was in a negative way.

“So I just, hung around a lot. Made sure that you knew I was present and I kept taking your picture and you just didn’t _notice_ me.” Guilt churns heavy in Zayn’s stomach. “And I knew that Liam was going to be away that night when I brought over the pie and wine, except I didn’t know your parents were going to be there. I liked you so much Zayn I just wanted to spend some time with you.”

Harry pauses, sips his Cosmo.

With nothing to do, Zayn takes a too-big sip of beer.

“When your mum invited me in, I just ran with it. I thought, ‘here’s my chance to show Zayn how great I am.’ I tried really, really hard, but you were so angry and I – I liked you a lot and I wanted to prove to you that I could be a good boyfriend.”

“You knew it was fake though,” Zayn points out.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see their server walk by them.

“I know, but it was time with you.”

The admission makes Zayn’s heart pound.

“I just wanted to spend time with you.”

Zayn takes the time to chew and cut his lamb. Harry takes the hint and does the same.

“Why’d you leave then? The first time?”

Harry squirms. “I mean. I did need my bag sewn. And I guess I also didn’t know what you’d do once we woke up. I knew I couldn’t handle outright rejection so I wanted to give you space. I just chose the wrong time to go to the bathroom.”

It’s a weak attempt at a joke and one that doesn’t settle Zayn at all.

“I’m such a dick,” Zayn sighs. He realizes now that his irritation with Harry didn’t truly have any ground. He was angry with Harry for existing pretty much from the get-go and it had led to miscommunications and heartbreaks and it was all so bloody stupid and avoidable.

“You’re not!” Harry intervenes.

“I was.”

This time, Harry doesn’t disagree, just shoves a forkful of salad into his mouth.

“At the beginning, I didn’t like you. I wrote you off and had this idea of what you were like in my head.” It physically pains Zayn to see the sadness flash across Harry’s angelic features. “I didn’t make it easy for you and I convinced myself that you were just a good actor.”

“I suck at acting.”

“Well, me too. I – I really like you. And seeing you with Nick drove me crazy.”

“He’s just my mate.” Zayn can’t help the disapproving eye roll. “He was actually the one who suggested I talk to you before I left. He just – he meant like, before I got drunk and started crying in a bar at two in the morning.”

“Harry-”

“S’alright now. Kind of funny if you think about it.” Harry’s self-deprecating smile tells him it’s not though.

“It’s not,” Zayn says because he can picture it all too clearly. He pictures a sad Harry, surrounded by all of his friends feeding him shots. He pictures people hugging him and ruffling his hair while Harry sits in the middle of the action and pouts into his drinks.

Harry’s lips twitch. “No, not really.”

Harry goes quiet again and they tuck into their half-finished meals with lighter hearts.

They make small talk about their meals; Zayn feeds Harry and steadfastly avoids Harry’s attempt to feed him leafy greens.

Athena comes back with a smile on her lips, clearing their empty plates. “I would recommend a dessert, but there’s this amazing smoothie place across the street. And a park.”

“Um,” Harry blushes, biting his lip.

Zayn feels heat flood his cheeks. “Just the bill then, please. One.”

Athena leaves before she can hear Harry’s, “ _I_ was going to pay.”

“You can buy me a smoothie.”

“Alright,” Harry settles. He folds his napkin into a triangle and sets it primly on the table.

Zayn tips generously and bundles himself up in his jacket as they step outside.

It’s chilly and it offers Zayn an ample opportunity to hold Harry’s hand under the guise of warming their hands. As it is, Zayn keeps his own hands stuffed into his pocket. The smoothie place is too close for them to get into another round of conversation so Harry thanks him for paying and leaves it at that.

The shop is quiet and there’s only one worker behind the counter.

“Banana Bonanza sounds good.” Harry leans in close to him.

“That sounds gross. And tacky,” Zayn adds. “I think I want the strawberry one.”

“There’s like, six of those.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, refusing to say ‘Strawberry Serendipity’. That doesn’t even make _sense_.

He’s forced to say it though when he orders much to Harry’s delight. He hands over his debit card excitably, digging into his pocket to tip the teenager. It goes unacknowledged by him.

“Thank you,” Zayn tells him, more tempted than ever to hold his hand.

He doesn’t know if they’re there yet, what with Harry still not returning his sentiment.

Harry knocks their hands together constantly on the way to the park though, and once they finally arrive they find a bench to sit on. The wood’s cold under Zayn’s thighs.

“Why did you agree to let me come to Doniya’s wedding if you didn’t like me?”

“I –” Harry’s bluntness throws Zayn off. “To be honest, I’m not really sure. At first I was going to tell you last minute not to come and then tell my parents that we broke up or something. But I didn’t want to do that because my family would have been really sad and asked me questions. I didn’t want to ruin Doniya’s mood either since she really wanted to meet you. I know that’s selfish.”

“It’s not. I was selfish too. I knew you didn’t like me as much as I liked you.”

That’s an understatement if Zayn’s ever heard one.

“I usually suck at expressing my feelings. I need to be forced to talk most of the time.”

“I got that.”

Zayn elbows Harry and gets a laugh in response. Harry looks beautiful when he laughs – looks beautiful _always_ and Zayn’s hit with how fortunate he is to be with Harry right now.

“How do you like working for the magazine?” Zayn asks, switching gears. He probably should have asked it earlier in the night, though he’s enjoying taking it slow with their conversation and letting it digest.

“It’s good. I wasn’t too sure what I was doing the first few weeks, but they’ve started sending me to interviews and photoshoots so that’s nice.”

“Are you an interviewer?” Zayn hadn’t known Harry wrote. He can picture Harry charming interviewees into getting juicy secrets.

“No, I just take their photos. Are you an editing illustrator?”

Zayn laughs softly, shaking his head. “I had no idea what I was until like, a week ago. I’m doing accompanying illustrations or something.”

“‘Or something’, sounds important.” Harry nods in mock seriousness.

“Shut up, it is.” He’s getting to the bottom of his drink; the strawberries are sweet on his tongue.

Harry’s straw makes a horrible sucking sound, signifying the end of his drink.

Zayn’s not ready for this night to end. He wants to see Harry for as long as he possibly can.

“This is a date, right?”

“Yes,” Harry says quickly. He doesn’t blush afterwards which is a start, but he does look sheepish.

“Good I – I’d like to date, for real.”

“Me too. Though, we need a do-over for tonight.”

“Tonight went well,” Zayn argues.

“It did. But I want to do this properly. Wine and dine you, treat you like a king.” Zayn laughs softly, edging his fingers closer to Harry’s on the bench. “That’s what Malik means, right? King? I looked it up once.”

Harry’s eyes positively sparkle at Zayn’s disbelieving laugh. It’s just so typically Harry that Zayn can’t help himself from leaning closer.

“Yeah, it does.”

“Get in!” Harry fist pumps.

Zayn sways forward to kiss him, catching himself at the last minute.

They still need space apart and that’s important to understand. The week of constant contact and communication had been nice, but Zayn’s ready to do this the right way this time around.

“We have to be smart about this. We can’t erase what happened, but we can move forward and build a stronger relationship because of it..”

“Is it weird that hearing you talk about a mature relationship, turns me on?”

“ _Harry_!”

“It does,” Harry defends. His nose is red from the cold and he sniffles against it. “But seriously. I think we’ll get it right this time. We have separate flats and everything.”

“We do.” Zayn agrees. His hand glides closer to Harry’s until their fingertips are touching.

Harry makes no move to hook them together. “Do you have a flatmate?”

“I have a cat, Stark.”

Zayn can see the cogs turning in Harry’s head. “Like _Iron Man_?”

“Yeap. Do you?”

“I have a Niall. He’s Irish.”

The first bout of laughter makes its way out of Zayn. It feels like a release; like all the tension he had been holding all night is starting to dissipate.

“Did you know him from before?”

Harry nods, fiddling with the empty cup in his hand. “Yeah. I met him at an open mic night in uni and he moved out here after graduation. You’d like him.”

“I can’t imagine he’s my biggest fan right now.”

“Not really. You could win him over, though.”

The prospect of meeting Harry’s friends, of interconnecting their friends and family and lives, leaves Zayn feeling giddy with hope.

A glance at Harry tells him he’s getting cold. It must be nearing ten with how much they’ve been talking in the park. They both have work tomorrow and Zayn had an early morning and a day drenched with mentally exhausting events.

Harry yawns, covering it with his hand. Zayn stares fixated on the black rings that are slid onto his fingers.

“Tired?” He asks.

Harry nods his head, looking apologetic and soft and Zayn wants to curl around him and get a good night’s sleep.

“I have to get my car, but-” Zayn stops. He doesn’t want to make it seem like he’s propositioning Harry. They’ve had such a great night and it would be truly ruined if Zayn’s words were misconstrued. He’s had it with misunderstandings. “I’d like to give you a lift home. No funny business.”

“No?” Harry asks. He raises an eyebrow like a challenge.

“Nope. Just, want to be a gentleman.”

“Alright.” Harry still doesn’t make to stand. “I don’t put out on the first date anyway.”

“Shame.” Zayn subtly tries to knock his hand against Harry’s. It works a little too well as Harry stands up, throwing out his empty cup. “Where are you living?” Zayn asks next.

“There’s this little blue apartment with black trim and small balconies that face the street. A couple blocks away from the office so I usually bike.”

There’s only one blue apartment building with black trim and small balconies that face the street near the office and Zayn knows of the exact one Harry’s talking about.

“You’re shitting me,” Zayn says in disbelief. He stops in the middle of the road just to look at Harry to ensure he’s not bullshitting him.

Harry shakes his head, brows furrowed.

Zayn should really get out of the middle of the road, but there are more important issues to discuss.

“I live – I live in that building.” And when it still doesn’t look like Harry understands him, Zayn adds, “On the third floor.”

“I live on the fifth!” Harry says excitably.

A car horn blares, causing them both to jump and run to the sidewalk.

Zayn’s heart is thudding in his chest. Harry got that look like Zayn’s hung the moon and the stars all for him again.

Harry opens his mouth, most likely to say something sickeningly cliché. Instead, he announces, “I don’t ride on the main roads.”

Zayn shakes his head with a laugh, taking a chance to wrap his cold fingers around Harry’s.

“ _Zayn_. Do you know what that means?”

They’re in the middle of the sidewalk for Christ’s sake on a chilly November night. Zayn’s with the one person he was hell bent on avoiding for the rest of his life – the one person he was convinced he was never going to see again. Harry’s looking at him with so much love in his eyes it hits Zayn like a train to the chest.

So Zayn humours him and shakes his head to watch Harry’s eyes squint with excitement. Zayn lets Harry squeeze his fingers so hard he couldn’t flex them if he tried.

Harry surges forward to kiss him. He’s giggling and smiling so wide he can’t even maintain the kiss, pulling away to whisper against Zayn’s lips;

“It’s fate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've gotten to the end, thank you so much for reading!!!!
> 
> and another massive thank you to my supportive betas!!! kay, my lovely kay, thank you so much for slaving away on the editing and going through it with a fine tooth comb!! brielle for the constant love and support and hilarious comments during the editing!! and elle for staying up later than she should to bounce ideas back and forth with me!!! this fic would not be what it is without y'all!!
> 
> feel free to like or share the [tumblr fic post](http://winezarry.tumblr.com/post/119046768723/)

**Author's Note:**

> let me know what you think below or you can find me on [tumblr](www.vinoharry.tumblr.com/)


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